


Unholy

by Shalebridge_Cradle



Series: Bathed in Red [1]
Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/F, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shalebridge_Cradle/pseuds/Shalebridge_Cradle
Summary: Miracles don't come without cost.





	1. Penitence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica apologizes to Heather.

Was there anything that Heather Chandler couldn’t turn into art?

Shards of broken glass glittered like crystal as Veronica tucked the suicide note between her former friend’s fingers.

‘Time to go,’ JD said, already halfway out the window. Veronica sighed.

‘Can I just… have a minute, please? I need to get my head around this.’

JD paused, and Veronica saw a touch of confusion in his eyes. Maybe it was about staying behind at the scene of the crime, maybe it was Veronica expressing genuine concern about the death of her friend. He shrugged.

“Don’t take too long thinking about it.”

Veronica listened for the far-away thud of his boots hitting the grass, like she was afraid he would listen in on her thoughts, before turning her gaze back to Chandler’s corpse.

She didn’t want this.

It was difficult to find the words for how she was feeling, and Veronica knew at least part of that was the alcohol still left in her system. She knew that the other reason was, honestly, she didn’t really know Heather. Well, everyone knew _Heather Chandler_ , Mythic Bitch, The Great Humiliator, but Veronica had hoped there was more to her than just that. The ‘suicide’ note she had written may have been a fantasy, a naïve delusion that maybe Heather was more than what she appeared to be.

Maybe.

There was no way of knowing now.

Of course, now that seventeen years of life had just been wasted (‘gone down the drain’, Veronica laughed at her own pun), the far less agreeable Heather Duke was the most likely candidate for Chandler’s crown. That might make the vicious mockery so ever-present at Westerburg worse, she worried, barely noticing the crunch of glass as Heather sat up. Duke gave the impression that she _needed_ to put others down, spite plain in every word out of her mouth, when compared to Chandler’s effortless cruelty. Maybe she feeds off people’s pain to replace all the food she throws up, Veronica thought, trying to suppress a guilty smile.

Wait.

_Heather was sitting up._

Mouth open, eyes unfocused, the corpse surveyed the damage to her bedroom. She stared at her hands, bringing them to her throat. Slowly, painfully slowly, Heather turned to meet Veronica’s horrified gaze.

“You tried to kill me.”

The voice that spoke was rough. One of shock, not anger.

“No,” Veronica choked as if she, too, had taken a swig of Drano. This was a hallucination. An alcohol-fueled nightmare. She looked down at the broken table, searching for a body, because this had to be a ghost.

She found nothing.

“You tried to kill me!” Heather repeated, voice now filled with rage (and…hurt? Fear? No, that couldn’t be right), “Are you fucking serious?! What did that creep say to you to make you think your only option was murder?!”

“I didn’t! Heather, I didn’t. JD poured the drain cleaner in a mug and I picked it up by mistake. I told him to pour it out! Believe me!” Veronica begged.

Heather frowned. There was a long silence as her eyes shifted to Veronica, to the broken mug, to the note in her hand, deep in thought.  Veronica awaited judgment, white-knuckled, heart in her throat.

“…No,” Heather said, finally, “No, you weren’t fine with that harmless prank at Ram’s party. You wouldn’t be down for murder.” She held up the folded piece of paper. “This, on the other hand, I just _know_ you did.”

Veronica managed to stop staring at Heather long enough to look at the ground, ashamed. Having regained some of her composure, Heather unfolded the note and began reading aloud.

“Me inside of me… rock star mystique… good god, Ronnie, you’re making me sound like Air Supply,” she said, a familiar cruelty creeping into her voice. She paused, frowning. “Hmm. Myriad. Nice.”

“I didn’t want to go to prison,” Veronica mumbled.

“And you thought this was going to be enough to fool the cops?”

“I didn’t expect you to be around to counter it.”

Heather smirked.

“I appreciate the effort, Veronica, but it’s not enough to save you or your creepy boyfriend. I’m still here, despite your best efforts. Now,” She stood up, gesturing to the remnants of her table, “Clean up the mess you’ve made.”

All things considered, Heather had gotten off lightly from her close encounter with all that glass. Veronica saw a few cuts on her legs, a few tears in her robe, but no blood. That was good, Veronica guessed, and looked around the room for something to put the broken glass into.

There was a small trash can next to Heather’s desk. That will have to do.

 

As she worked (with no hand protection, as it happened, but Veronica figured there’d be no problem if she was careful), Heather Chandler sat on her bed and sneered at Veronica’s efforts.

“I’m gonna bankrupt your goddamn family to pay for everything you’ve ruined tonight.”

“Christ, could you go any slower? We could be here until I _actually_ died and you still wouldn’t be done.”

“I’d offer you gloves or something, but I think we both know you don’t deserve it.”

 _Deep breaths, Veronica. In. Out._ Heather could snipe at her all she wanted, given the circumstances. She figured it was a stress reliever for her, and almost dying was definitely a cause for concern.

The broken mug was the last thing to go out, getting blue all over the rest of the shattered glass. Veronica’s fingers were covered in little red lines, and she quietly hoped she had enough bandages at home. Heather swept her eyes over the room, surveying Veronica’s work.

“Good,” she hummed. “Well, I think you’ve been on your knees long enough for me to consider forgiving you for puking all over my shoes.”

“And the attempted murder?” Veronica spoke without thinking. She clamped a hand over her runaway mouth as Heather’s lip curled upwards.

“Well, I’m never going to forgive you for _that_.”

Her tone was light, unperturbed. Of course, Heather took pretty much everything with a smile or a scowl, neither of which ever seemed to touch her eyes. It was rare they ever betrayed anything but that well-practiced indifference.

“I’ll be the bigger person.” She spread her arms wide, a mockery of mercy. “In my endless generosity, I will spare your miserable little social life.”

That was more than Veronica expected when she first climbed in her best friend's window. She opened her mouth to speak, but Heather held up a hand.

“This is your only chance. One toe out of line, and you’re out. Gone. I’ll tell the whole school what you did, and you and Trenchcoat Kid will be off to death row.” Heather smiled, and Veronica knew from that awful grin that the Demon Queen was back in full force.

“My word is law,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “You do what I say, or you _die_. Okay?”

Veronica swallowed.

“Okay.”


	2. Recollection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica is concerned for her friends.

Veronica wasn’t entirely sure if the past thirty hours had actually happened.

From what she picked up, nobody else was either.

The reaction of the student body was, for the most part, surprise when Veronica walked in with the other Heathers on Monday morning. She heard some seniors muttering in uncertain voices about Chandler’s threats of crucifixion, while others just shrugged and went on with their day.

Nothing had happened that night, no matter what everyone’s memories told them. The Queen decreed it, and thus it was so.

Musing over Heather Chandler’s ability to warp reality, Veronica looked around the cafeteria to see some individual students’ reactions. Kurt and Ram were too busy miming anatomically incorrect sex acts with the other members of the football team, and Veronica assumed that they were far too drunk on Saturday to remember what happened. Martha, however, was stone-cold sober at the time, and Veronica had no doubt that her mind was still firmly focused on that night. Veronica’s oldest friend stared at her mashed potatoes, despondent, and Veronica felt a twinge of guilt for still hanging out with the people who had humiliated her. Forcing her gaze away from her friend, it wandered around the cafeteria before coming to rest on JD, almost hidden in the far corner.

JD stared right back at her.

His was a look of betrayal, and the hurt, the sadness, the white-hot _fury_ that came with it burned brightly on his face. How could she? Veronica had laughed with him, had heard his pain, had _slept with him_ , for God’s sake, and yet here she was, right back to being the Heathers’ lackey. The guilt that was already eating away at her found its way into her throat.

Veronica felt a sharp pain in her shin. She snapped out of it long enough to see Heather Chandler, a horrible, rictus grin on her face.

“You’re not going anywhere _near_ that freak, understand me?” she hissed. Veronica could have sworn that there was still a tinge of blue on Heather Chandler’s teeth.

( _But that hadn’t happened. There was no Drano incident. Heather wouldn’t be alive if there was, right?_ )

Her anger was fair enough. Remorse threatened to take control, and Veronica fixed her attention on her lunch.

It was then she noticed that Chandler hadn’t touched hers.

Weird, Veronica thought to herself. She’d expected this from Duke (who was looking at her own tray with a great deal of apprehension), but Chandler always seemed to have a perfectly healthy relationship with food. McNamara seemed to have noticed this oddity, too, and shared a look of concern with Veronica, but gave a slight shake of her head.

_Don’t push it._

Chandler was in a bad mood, and Veronica knew that she had something to do with it. A battle for another day, she supposed.

 

-

 

“And here I thought you were done with those girls.”

JD’s voice was as light and casual as it always was, but there was a bitterness to it that Veronica couldn’t ignore. She had been separated from the others by virtue of actually going to class every once in a while. At first the piercing stare on the back of her head had been Heather’s, and she wasn’t entirely sure this was better.

“We, uh…” Veronica paused for a moment, coming up with an excuse, “We made up. Heather and I both said a lot of things we shouldn’t, and agreed to be nicer people from now on.”

She held his gaze for a good two seconds before they both burst out laughing.

There was no humor in it.

“I have to say,” JD managed to stifle his cruel laughter for a moment, “I’m surprised she managed to talk at all. Drain cleaner kinda gets you all choked up, if you know what I mean.”

That comment made Veronica’s stomach drop. There were so many thoughts she’d been repressing about that night, and not only was JD telling her that everything had really happened, but that he didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt over it. JD continued as the nervous giggle died in her throat.

“I’ve been to loads of high schools, and let me tell you, Westerburg isn’t so different. The beautiful elite, all shoulder pads and sharp tongues, grinding all the decent people into the dirt.” He gave her that same devil-may-care smile that Veronica loved so much, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “You had a chance to change all that. To make the world a better place.  _You didn’t_.”

Veronica saw a flash of red out of the corner of her eye, and heard a slam of metal as JD was seemingly thrown into the lockers.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice drawled, “Jesse James. Color me surprised.”

Heather Chandler was leaning into JD’s shoulder, nonchalant. If JD wasn’t struggling to move, Veronica would have thought there was no weight behind it.

Cold, grey eyes turned to her.

“I thought I told you not to talk to this weirdo.”

“He came up to talk to me.” Veronica replied.

“This is true,” JD said, and there was a touch of discomfort in his tone, “Now, if you let me go, I _promise_ not to do it again.”

Heather didn’t let the contempt dripping from his voice go unpunished. She shoved hard into his shoulder, and the boy in the trenchcoat let out a grunt of pain. Heather dropped her hand.

“Off you go, then,” she said, sickly sweet, and JD stalked away, wounded body and wounded pride. Heather’s attention returned to Veronica, and Veronica finally decided which situation was worse.

This one. This was the darkest timeline.

“Clearly, I have to keep a closer eye on you,” Heather growled, and Veronica felt a shiver down her spine as the girl in red grabbed her by the hand and led her away.

 

-

 

That ‘other day’ came and went, and Veronica still hadn’t broached the topic of Heather’s sudden aversion to food. She was too busy noticing other things while wandering the halls with the Heathers, and since Chandler wouldn’t let her out of her sight, she couldn’t do much but write about it in her diary, a record of her spiral into insanity.

Chandler’s reflection was…off. Blurry around the edges. Veronica would have thought it was the mirror, if she hadn’t noticed her own reflection leaning against the bathroom wall, crystal clear.

Chandler had met her gaze, smirking, and any coherent thought abandoned her.

Then there was the time at the mall, where Duke had pointed out an elegant silver bracelet while walking around one of the jewelry stores. Chandler had moved closer to examine it, her fingers just brushing against the chain, before she pulled back suddenly. Chandler had dismissed it outright, walking out of the store, the remaining Heathers trailing behind her. Duke had shrugged at Veronica’s questioning eyes.

And, of course, there was that whole thing with Martha.

It wasn’t as ominous as it sounded. Not when it happened, at least. Heather was looking around at the cafeteria, a lion surveying the herd of antelope, and her eyes locked on Martha’s lonely table.

Veronica knew what she was thinking. She thought she did, anyway. Martha was only just recovering from the whole… incident, and didn’t deserve whatever Chandler was thinking up.

“Please don’t,” Veronica groaned, and Duke gave a warning glare. Chandler’s eyes remained, but she did deign to respond.

“Dumptruck has no friends besides you, right?”

There was no malice in the statement.

Odd.

“No.”

“Not anymore,” mumbled McNamara.

Heather remained silent for a moment.

“How many people are at that table?” she asked, pointing to Martha.

“One,” Veronica and Duke responded in unison. Wasn’t it obvious?

Apparently not, if the sudden, forced shift in the conversation was any indication, but Veronica, Duke and McNamara knew better than to question Chandler.

At least, not where she could hear them.

 

-

 

Days passed, and Veronica began to notice the slight changes in Heather. Her hands were just a touch lighter than her face, the dark shadows under her eyes no longer hidden by her make-up. Whenever she insulted someone, Veronica could hear some of Duke’s desperation, that need to dominate, edging into her voice. Heather Chandler was losing control.

No-one but Veronica seemed to notice. Worse, she knew that it was _her_ fault it was happening, and she was too afraid to speak up.

That’s what killed her inside.

“Are you okay?” McNamara had finally asked one day, and it took Veronica a few moments to realize that she was talking to her. “You’ve been kinda… out of it lately.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Just… have a lot on my mind.”

She heard a toilet flush, and Heather Duke returned from her purge. “Stop _thinking_ , then. Whatever it is, it can’t be as important as what’s coming up.”

Right. The Remington Party. The very thought of it filled her with dread, and given her track record at parties, she figured the others knew too. One toe out of line, Heather had said, one more strike, her life was over. The whole thing was a catch-22: don’t go to the party? Out. Go to the party? Well, she was bound to mess up somewhere. Out.

Chandler regarded her coolly as Duke and McNamara discussed their outfits and Veronica had her mini-crisis. When Veronica finally met her eyes, she frowned, and Veronica was sure there was a flash of concern in the look she gave her.

Of course, Veronica didn’t really trust what her eyes were telling her anymore.

Maybe Duke was on to something.


	3. Thirst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heathers go to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of violence in this chapter.

Veronica was not allowed to drink, Chandler had announced.

After the last party, Veronica understood completely. What she _didn’t_ really understand was how something that was supposed to be fun had such high stakes, but at that point she was afraid to ask.

Well, that, and just afraid in general.

Veronica wasn’t sure if she _wanted_ to be drunk for this. The Remington party was much darker, louder, rowdier than Ram’s place, and with fewer familiar faces. This felt a lot less safe, and Veronica wasn’t sure if alcohol would help with the feeling of uncertainty pooling in her stomach.

From her spot in the corner of the room, trying not to catch anyone’s eye, she kept track of each Heather’s location. Heather McNamara was dancing with some college kid. Heather Duke was entangled in another’s arms, looking distinctly unhappy, but she wasn’t fighting back. Veronica wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad sign.

Heather Chandler, meanwhile, was alone, apparently trying to drown herself in vodka.

Veronica thought it best to approach her.

Clearly, she _was_ going crazy.

Veronica sidled up to Heather’s hiding spot as the girl in red took another gulp from the bottle, grimacing as she swallowed. Jesus Christ, Veronica thought. They'd only been for an hour or two at most, and Heather had almost finished a good liter of the stuff. She should be on the floor by now, or in the back of an ambulance, but here she was, chugging it down like it was water. 

“It’s almost like you _want_ to die of alcohol poisoning.”

 _Bad start, Veronica_.

Heather’s expression didn’t change, her eyes still on her drink.

“I’m thirsty.” she replied. It was flippant, an attempt to end the conversation. Veronica had heard that tone of voice a lot recently.

“You know vodka doesn’t help with that, right?”

“ _Nothing helps_.”

Heather gave a sigh, long and low, as she raised her eyes. Veronica had seen her power through two weeks of apparent starvation with no ill effects, so it was almost a shock to see how _tired_ Heather looked.

“Nothing helps, Ronnie.” she repeated, flatly, “It hasn’t for ages now. Doesn’t matter what I drink. Every day it's getting worse, and I don’t know how to stop it.” The last part came out hushed, as if she was afraid someone would overhear.

Heather Chandler didn’t have all the answers.

God forbid.

Unfortunately for her, Veronica didn't have any either.

“What do you want me to do?”  

Heather glared, all trace of vulnerability disappearing.

“If I knew, I’d have made you fix it by now. I can’t ask Heather to help, she’s just itching for some dirt on me, and Heather can’t keep her damn mouth shut.” There was a huff as she returned to the bottle.

There was something sad about that. The most popular girl at Westerburg High thought she had no-one to turn to in her time of need. When it was put like that, Veronica just had to step in. That urge got her into trouble so very many times, but helping was what Veronica did. 

Especially when she shouldn’t. 

Of course, it never really mattered what Veronica wanted. As they spoke, a boy with greasy hair and an attitude to match (she remembered this one from Ram’s party – David, was it?) came slithering up to their table, sliding an arm around Heather’s waist.

“Ladies,” he began, as if every word out of his mouth was some sort of divine message, “I hate to interrupt your conversation, but I simply must borrow Miss Chandler for a moment. We have something very important to discuss.” His hungry eyes fell on Veronica. “Unless, of course, you’d like to join us…?”

Heather gave a quick, almost invisible, shake of her head. Veronica coughed.

“Um, actually, I just realized I’m totally meant to be meeting with Heather Duke right now. There I go again, forgetting something important. I’ll be going now…”

Heather let out a sigh as she was led away. Veronica hoped at least some of it was relief.

 

-

 

“No.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. Of course Duke had no desire to help anyone but herself.

The girl in green had managed to escape the clutches of whatever guy she was with, and was looking around defensively, hoping the sheer force of her hatred would ward off any other ‘suitors’. McNamara was taking a break from dancing, a sheen of sweat catching what little light there was. At least one of them seemed to be having fun, Veronica thought bitterly to herself.

“Even if I wanted to help her,” Duke continued, “Do you really think she’d let me?”

McNamara’s brow was creased with worry. “I wouldn’t. One time, I lost her at a Remington party, and when I finally found her in one of the bedrooms, she gave me a look, you know,” - Veronica was pretty sure she knew - “because I interrupted her doing, well… you know.”

Again, Veronica had an idea of what that was, and was sickened at the very thought of it.

“Great pep talk, guys,” she said as she got up from the table, trying to keep the worst of the sarcasm out of her voice, “really helped me out. Thanks for the advice and all, but I'm just gonna ignore it. See ya.”

“Oh, Veronica,” Duke said in a sing-song voice, a mocking smile on her lips, “If you’re _really_ thinking of going after her… it was nice knowing you.”

Veronica didn’t look back.

 

As she searched the house, avoiding any roaming eyes or hands, Veronica thought once again about Heather’s threat.

_I’ll tell the whole school what you did._

If it mattered, Veronica tried to justify to the empty air, she _did_ feel bad about accidentally giving Heather Chandler drain cleaner. She had only just begun to show some emotion, you know, that thing humans do. It made Veronica believe that maybe she wasn’t the soulless hell-spawn everyone thought she was. If Heather _had_ died that night, it would have been a tragedy that the knowledge had never come to light.

Of course, given McNamara’s explanation, what Veronica planned to do was just the sort of thing that would incur her wrath. Strike Three. Veronica's life would be over.

Depending on how the judge heard her case, possibly literally.

Imagining her hypothetical day in court (and mentally preparing her insanity plea), Veronica took a step out of the house into the cool night air. She spotted two figures in the darkness. One sitting, one standing. This might be her moment.

Do or die.

Fuck it, she thought. If Veronica Sawyer was going to go to jail, she would go because she did something _right_.

Creeping forward, eyes adjusting to the gloom, Veronica confirmed her suspicions. There was a popped collar on the slumped silhouette. That must be David. The figure in the dress, the one standing above him, that had to be Heather.

Heather, turned away, shaking. Heather, face hidden, looking like she was about to collapse.

Heather Fucking Chandler,  _terrified_.

This wasn’t right.

“Heather,” Veronica whispered, like she was talking to a frightened animal instead of her friend, “just me. Don’t freak out.”

Chandler’s head snapped towards her, eyes wild, hands clasped far too tightly over her mouth.

This _really_ wasn’t right.

Veronica turned her attention to the boy on the ground, and she tried to keep her panic to a minimum as she quickly realized he wasn’t breathing. She bent down to shake his shoulder.

“Hey.”

David’s head rolled to one side, and any restraint Veronica was displaying disappeared as she stumbled back.

His throat had been ripped open, muscles and tendons torn, all wet and raw and _red_ – any blood left in his arteries had slowed to a weak trickle, dribbling down his neck and staining his polo shirt.

“What the fuck,” Veronica breathed, “what the fuck, what the fuck is this, what the fuck…”

She repeated the phrase over and over, like a mantra, waiting for the universe to give her an answer.

The universe provided.

Something shifted behind Veronica, and she whipped around. Heather was cautiously lowering her hands.

Veronica’s stomach dropped.

She watched, transfixed, as the red ran down Heather Chandler’s chin.


	4. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather and Veronica have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of violence in this chapter.

The police were called.

Yes, underage drinking was one thing, but gruesome death was another. The ones who reeked of alcohol stumbled into waiting cars or straight-up vanished into the night, and those remaining milled around, aimless and scared.

Little lost lambs, Veronica thought as she sat with the other Heathers, waiting for the two officers to question her. All that bravado before, all that confidence found at the bottom of a bottle. Where was it now?

She was right not to drink. Of the group, Veronica was questioned first. That made sense. After all, she was the one who found the body.

Her story was this – that she had found Heather Chandler outside with an unconscious David. Being the good friend that she was, she had taken Heather inside to make sure she was okay before going back to check on David.

( _Shredded skin, frayed sinew. Heather did this why did she do this why_ )

“You’re sure he was alive when you left him?” the officer asked her.

“Definitely.”

Veronica hated how easily the lie slipped from her lips. She blamed Heather for this, in more ways than one.

The other Heathers backed up her testimony with what little they saw. McNamara’s leg jiggled as she spoke, while Duke was trying and failing to copy Chandler’s practiced mask of indifference. Yes, Veronica had led Chandler upstairs to the bathroom. Yes, Veronica had come back down alone, and had gone out the back door.

Yes, they had heard her scream.

Chandler didn’t speak at all. She nodded or shook her head in response to questions, she never looked the interviewing officer in the eye. She glared at the wall like it had personally offended her, or shot an angry glance in Veronica’s direction.

“Shock.” The officer had grunted. Veronica was inclined to agree. Chandler couldn’t have meant to do it.

Veronica didn’t want to think about the alternative.

They were all released without charge. This was the work of something feral, they had said.

Veronica swore she saw Heather flinch.

 

-

 

There was little discussion on the drive home. Death had a way of shutting down casual conversation.

“Do you need someone to stay with you tonight?”

It was Heather McNamara. Halting, voice cracking as she spoke. Fearful.

“I’m fine.” Chandler said forcefully, “Do you think I care about that creep? The world’s better off with less Davids in it.”

Veronica couldn’t see her face from the back seat, but it was clear from her tone that Heather was not fine. She and McNamara shared a look. Duke hummed in solemn agreement, but kept her eyes firmly on the road.  

There was a pause.

“Actually, Veronica, I need something from you.”

Veronica took a deep breath in before responding.

“What do you need?”

“I’ve got a history paper due Monday,” Chandler replied, “that’s not gonna happen. I’ll need a forgery getting me out of handing it in.”

“Do you really need it tonight?” Veronica was exhausted, emotionally, physically. She needed a break, to collect her thoughts and block out all the ones that didn’t make sense.

“When I want you to do something, _Sawyer_ , you do it. Or do you have a death wish?”

She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. But, at this point, picking either option was going to lead to Veronica’s untimely demise.

“Fine,” she spat out, and the atmosphere in the car grew a lot less tense.

Veronica felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from the contact, only to find McNamara giving her a nervous little smile.

“Thanks for staying with her.” She whispered, “She doesn’t like showing her soft side, but I trust you to take care of her.”

( _Don’t trust, never trust. Especially not Veronica_ )

The car came to a stop, and Veronica was yanked sideways out of the car and in front of the Chandler mansion. Heather slammed the door just a bit too hard, and Veronica jumped. McNamara gave her a forlorn look, like an abandoned puppy, before Heather Duke’s Jeep peeled away from the curb and out of sight.

 

-

 

Veronica knew Heather Chandler’s house was big, but going through the front door made her realize it was _stupidly_ big. How many people lived here, anyway? As far as she knew, Heather was an only child.

“Aren’t we going to wake up your parents?”

“They aren’t here.” Heather replied, and her tone made it clear it wasn’t up for discussion. Veronica scoured her memories, trying to remember a time when she had actually seen Heather’s parents, and found nothing. It was certainly a way to pass the time while she was dragged through the many, many halls.

A familiar red carpet greeted the both of them as Heather set about closing the drapes. Veronica noticed the shiny new lock on the window before it disappeared from view.

Heather didn’t look at her. She was busying herself with organizing a perfectly clean room, removing and replacing books from shelves, shifting ornaments and shuffling magazines, movements jerky and frantic. Unhinged. Veronica felt a wave of cold wash over her as the realization sunk in that she was alone with her. The ~~thing~~ person who had just brutally murdered someone, and looked ready to kill again.

“What did you do?”

Heather’s voice was low, accusatory. Veronica began having flashbacks to her imaginary trial.

“I… got you out of a murder charge?” She replied.

“No, you _pillowcase_ ,” Heather growled, and Veronica almost marveled at how she could make something mundane sound so _filthy_ , “I mean me. What did you do to me?”

Veronica swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

Heather froze. There was split second of stillness, before she was on Veronica far too quickly for the girl in blue to react. Veronica felt sharp nails dig into her wrist, felt the skin break, as Heather bared her teeth _her teeth too long too sharp what happened to her teeth?_

“Don’t you _dare_ pretend you don’t know,” she snarled, rage building to a crescendo, “This all started with you and your little _boy toy_! You did something to me, and you’re not leaving this room alive until you tell me what it is!”

Veronica tried to pull away. It was an unconscious decision, as Heather’s eyes had gone ~~dark~~ _black completely black no no no no_ and some base instinct was telling her to _run_. Veronica yelled, screamed for someone to help as she tried to jerk her hand away, screamed as ~~nails~~ _claws_ tore through her arm _I don’t know, I don’t know, someone please help help help me-_

The vice grip on her wrist disappeared, and something wrapped itself around her chest. Reeling, gasping, Veronica still struggled to reach the open door until she realized whatever was constricting her was trembling.

“Don’t leave,” ~~it~~ Heather breathed, shuddering, shaking, “I just- I don’t know what’s going on, I’m sorry, Ronnie, don’t leave me alone…”

Slowly, feeling the blood dripping down her arm, Veronica returned the embrace until Heather's sobbing lapsed into silence.

( _There was nothing else she could do._ )


	5. Mistrust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather is upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of... violence?

Once again, the Heathers found themselves at the center of scandal and suspicion.

It was generally agreed on that some sort of wild animal had been responsible for David’s death, and warnings had been posted all over town. Students were told to stay away from wooded areas, and the Sherwood Animal Control Department had gotten its own spot on the local news. Still, the world of gossip had no place for facts, and rumors had spread quickly in the few short days since the party.

That the whole thing was a cleverly-disguised murder.

That one of the Heathers had killed him.

That, who or whatever it was, Veronica had fought it off, and that’s why her wrist was bandaged.

Sometimes, Veronica mused, rumors came far too close to the truth.

All of them had been the subject of scrutiny before. Chandler had just the trick to dissuade the gossip – mock anyone who brought it up. The other two Heathers, as always, followed suit. It had worked many times before, and it seemed to be working again.

Even then…

 

“I don’t think it was an animal.”

Veronica wasn’t even sure who had said it, at first, until Duke looked up from her book expectantly. They were in class, English being the only subject Duke bothered to show up to. On the one hand, Veronica was pleased that at least one of the Heathers took part of their education seriously.

On the other hand, it meant there was no-one to tell her to shut up.

“I’m sorry?”

“Rude much?” Duke grumbled, before becoming usually serious. “The Remington party. I don’t think it was an animal that killed him.”

“What do you think it was, then?” Veronica questioned.

“Haven’t got that far, yet. You said you didn’t see anything nearby, didn’t you?”

Veronica cursed Heather Duke for picking up on the one thing she _hadn’t_ lied about.

“That’s right.”

“Well, that means whatever it was came out of the woods, killed David, and then ran off before you got back. That’s not normal animal behavior.”

“The neck isn’t the meatiest part of the body,” Veronica agreed, glumly. Both of them went right back to ignoring the teacher, and Veronica hoped that whatever book Duke was reading was engaging enough to stop her digging deeper.

 

-

 

One quiet evening, Veronica was called downstairs by her parents only to find Heather Chandler standing at her front door.

“Your friend Heather says she’s here for a study session.” Her mother told her with some apprehension. Heather’s smile was dripping with that artificial sweetness, the kind that caused cancer. It comforted Veronica a little to see that her mom wasn’t fooled by Heather’s little act.

“We discussed it at lunch today, remember?” Heather crooned, “You said you’d help me with my algebra homework.”

This was incredibly suspicious. The most obvious sign of this was that Heather Chandler apparently wanted to study. The second was that no such conversation had occurred. Heather had barely spoken to her, hadn’t touched her, hadn’t looked her in the eye since the… incident. Veronica wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.

Of course, this was Veronica’s territory. This was _her_ house, with other people around to protect her. If Heather tried to eat her, they could call the cops.

Or a priest, maybe. Whatever.

There was also the possibility that, underneath all the layers of fear and distrust, Veronica had a touch of sympathy for the devil. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember now,” she lied, “come on up.”

Heather gave her a smirk as she walked over the threshold. Veronica vaguely remembered something about needing an invitation to enter a home, and felt a pang of panic as she was followed up the stairs.

Heather had shut the door upon entering the bedroom, and sat herself down on Veronica's bed, a queen on her throne. Veronica swore that girl could sit on a pile of garbage bags and still make it look regal.

“You’re not here to study, are you?”

“God, no.” Heather scoffed, “Heather and Heather are out on a double date, so I figured now was a good time to visit.”

“What do you want, then?” It came out a little harsher than Veronica had intended, and Heather seemed to pick up on that.

“Why do you think I do the things I do, Veronica?”

“Because you’re a terrible person.”

Heather opened her mouth to argue, but clamped it shut for a moment, thinking. Then she tried again.

“There is a reason behind everything. I flirt with Kurt and Ram so they’ll keep doing my dirty work. I go to college parties to show all the dweebs at school that I’m far beyond them. Every insult, every smile, every wink, I mean to do it, even if I don’t want to.”

“And that stuff on Saturday?”

Heather’s eyes drifted down to the carpet. “No. Not that. That’s why I’m here. I need to make it up to you.”

Oh.

 _This_ could be interesting.

“I thought getting driven to the E.R. was my reward.” Veronica was pretty sure the ride there caused her more trauma than David’s death and Heather’s breakdown combined. In hindsight, it was interesting that Heather’s problems with authority other than herself also extended to stop signs and speed limits.

“That’s different. You literally helped me get away with murder, that gets you something more.” Heather leaned her head on her hand, a small smile on her lips. “What boon do you crave this time, Veronica? I’ll see what I can do.”

Veronica’s mind raced. Barring any inappropriate requests ( _she ripped a dude’s throat out, Veronica, you should not be having those sorts of thoughts_ ), Heather offering her something was like getting a wish from the worst genie in the universe. After all, the reason they were in this mess was because Veronica wanted to sit at the Heathers’ table _once._ That, and there were many things she knew Heather would outright refuse to do, like being nice to Martha or picking a color other than red. Maybe… being nicer in general?

There was one idea that came to mind. She might go ahead with it.

“Talk to me.”

That seemed to throw Heather off. “Come again?”

“Talk to me,” Veronica repeated, gesturing vaguely at Heather’s throat, “About… that.”

Heather looked at Veronica like she’d grown an extra limb.

“Are you sure you don’t want a car, or something? I can get you a car. Maybe a nice house? New parents?”

“I feel like you’re over-promising.” Veronica chuckled, but her smile quickly faded. “I want to know what’s going on. We can’t allow it to fester. You don’t have to hide anything from me, and if you keep pushing it down it’s just going to happen again.”

“No-one will believe you.”

A-ha. So _that_ was the problem.

Veronica covered Heather’s hand with her own, and she could feel Heather tense up at the contact.

“I’m not going to tell them,” Veronica murmured in Heather’s ear, “because I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help.”

Heather met Veronica’s gaze, and there was such raw emotion in those eyes that, for a moment, Veronica was floored.

There was a tiny whisper of “You shouldn’t” before Heather Chandler finally let the mask drop.

 

-

 

The nightmares were the worst part, Heather told Veronica, even worse than the loss of her beloved corn nuts. The whole ‘not eating’ thing seemed to be physical, everything tasting like ash that, even if Heather managed to get it down, came right back up. The insomnia, on the other hand, that was a mental barrier that kept her from her slumber. If Heather got rid of it, she wouldn’t have to be alone with her thoughts.

After some encouragement, she opened up on some specifics – Being eaten alive by maggots. Fighting her way out of her own grave, fingernails snapping and skin peeling away as she tried to break through the coffin lid. David, head lolling this way and that, dragging her down into the abyss.

It all sounded so vivid, and yet Heather seem more annoyed than afraid when recounting her night terrors. That, admittedly, was par for the course for her – it was always anger first, then maybe a sliver of fear. The almighty Heather Chandler could _never_ be scared in front of others, lest they attack her for her weakness.

That forbidden vulnerability only returned when she started talking about the dreams with Veronica in them.

Veronica, slumped against a wall, throat missing. 

Veronica, crumbling to dust between Heather’s fingers. 

Veronica, grinning as Heather choked and gasped for air, a familiar figure in a trenchcoat wrapping his arms around her waist.

Heather went silent after that last one. Her gaze, burning with anger and shame, was firmly fixed on Veronica’s wrist.

Veronica wasn’t sure whether or not she saw the beginnings of tears in the corner of Heather’s eyes. She moved to embrace her anyway, and Heather didn’t stop her.

 

-

 

“Switch seats with me.”

It was an order. Veronica obeyed without thinking, tearing her eyes away from Martha happily reading a note she had sent (in Veronica’s own hand, a rare thing these days) and moving around the table to take Chandler’s vacated chair. She only stopped to wonder why after it was all done.

“Billy the Kid keeps making eyes at you,” Heather had told her, without prompting.

“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” sang Duke, not looking up from her book.

“Shut up, Heather!”

“Sorry, Heather.”

Duke wasn’t sorry. Not in the slightest. Chandler mumbled something which made Duke give her a look of absolute horror, holding her book like a shield as Chandler turned her withering gaze to JD.

“What do we have on him?”

Not this shit again, Veronica thought. The Heathers had gone weeks, _weeks_ , without trying to ruin someone’s life. Veronica had stupidly believed that maybe she was making a difference to their behavior.

“He beat up Kurt and Ram,” McNamara suggested.

“Real fucking helpful, Heather. Pretty sure the whole county knows about that. Something else.”

“His dad runs a demolition business,” Duke grudgingly supplied. That earned a hum from Chandler, her eyes still fixed on the boy in the corner.

Everyone’s attention turned to Veronica.

“Um,” she began, “He loves 7-Elevens, and...”

“ _And?_ ”

Chandler’s voice was deep, full of malice. Veronica simultaneously loved and hated how it made her feel.

“…and his mom died. I don’t know how.” she finished. Chandler looked almost disappointed at the admission.

“Maybe his dad blew her up,” Duke sneered. It earned her nothing but shocked expressions and a _very_ nervous giggle from McNamara.

Even Heather Chandler had a line she wasn’t willing to cross.

“Veronica, I need something from you,” Chandler said suddenly, standing up and grabbing Veronica’s hand.

“Again?”

“Again,” Heather repeated, imperious. She turned to the remaining Heathers. “Do the lunchtime poll. I’ll be back.”

Duke’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as Veronica was led away.

 

Veronica tried not to stumble as she was dragged through the linoleum halls, and when Heather stopped abruptly outside the girls’ bathroom, it took every effort to keep herself from crashing into the queen bee.

“This one’s empty,” Heather muttered, mostly to herself it seemed, pulling Veronica in with her.

“Heather, what’s going on?” Veronica asked. Heather didn’t reply, instead choosing to examine her own blurred reflection as she spoke.

“He spends his free time at 7-Eleven?”

“As far as I know.”

“No offense, but why?”

“Because he moves around a lot, and 7-Eleven is the only thing he sees everywhere he goes. It’s… comforting, I think.”

“That’s just sad.”

To an extent, Veronica had to agree.

“Okay, so a drifter, no friends, hangs out in a place with a dark alley nearby.” Heather summarized. Veronica felt a twinge of anxiety as she nodded.

“Why is this important? Couldn’t you ask this in the cafeteria?” confusion and dread were welling up inside her once more. “What are you going to do to him? Heather? Heather, _look at me_.”

Taking a deep breath, Heather turned to face her. It was not the face of the almighty Heather Chandler that Veronica saw. It was one of exhaustion, of pain, of guilt. One that was now so familiar.

“You were right, Veronica. It's back. The hunger is back."


	6. Live, Laugh, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica goes shopping.

Veronica had made a quick call to her parents, telling them she’d be spending the night at Chandler’s again.

“She’s going through some heavy stuff right now,” she told them, “I want to help her through it.”

There was some doubt in her mother’s voice as she praised her for being such a loyal friend, signing off with a “love you” before Veronica hung up. She was painfully aware of Heather’s eyes on the back of her head.

It was something deeper than loyalty.

 

As it happened, Heather had a lot of reasons for wanting to murder Jason Dean. First off, he had tried to kill her, and Veronica had to admit that was a really good start. Even if she was fairly sure that JD had only intended to make Heather sick, Veronica knew from the beginning that the prank had been a bad idea.

Second, being a lone wolf transfer student, no-one really knew him, and few would mourn his passing if he did wind up dead.

“I would.” Veronica argued. The smile on Heather's lips didn't reach her eyes.

“Of course you would.”

Third, he hung out near a part of town which was known for its shady characters. If his body _was_ found in an alleyway in the area, it was unlikely that suspicion would fall on Heather, who would never go somewhere where she wasn’t surrounded by admirers. She’d put a serious amount of thought into this. Veronica frantically tried to think up another reason to stall her.

“Think of what Westerburg would do without you.”

“I’m sure Heather Duke would be happy to take my place.”

“He doesn’t deserve this.”

“He deserves it more than anyone else in this town.” 

“You’re throwing your life away.”

Heather’s only response was a pained laugh. 

Short of robbing a blood bank, Veronica was running low on ideas. An insidious idea wormed its way into her head, but she wasn’t prepared to play that card just yet.

“He’s a kid,” Veronica pleaded, “He’s just a kid. He’s angry, he’s confused, he’s damaged. He could grow up to be someone better if you let him live.”

Heather’s eyes were cold, her lip downturned. A familiar face when they were with other people, but Heather had already proved to Veronica that she was capable of far more than that. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. Maybe she just hated seeing Veronica talk so glowingly about JD. Maybe she was jealous.

But that can’t be right.

“So could I,” Heather retorted, “and I don’t think I can anymore. Whose fault is that?”

_It was Veronica’s fault._

The thought was intrusive, unwanted, but it was fact. If she had just checked the mug’s contents, none of this would have happened. Chandler would still be a bitch, Veronica would be less than nothing, but neither of them would be here having to contemplate killing someone.

JD was just a kid. They were all kids. But a single mistake had forced them into a situation no-one should have to be in.

That awful idea reared his ugly head once more, and Veronica’s regrets caught up with her.

“Use me instead.”

Heather went stock-still.

“You don’t know if you have to kill people, right?” Veronica’s voice shook a little less at this, “You’ve only done it once. Try it on me. I deserve it.”

Heather’s smile… it was so very unlike her. It was the sort you’d see on a statue of a saint, full of love and compassion as she moved over to Veronica. All of Veronica’s self-loathing, that which was consuming her just a moment ago, fell by the wayside as she let herself sink into Heather’s embrace, so soft, so pleasantly cool. So absorbed in the moment, Veronica almost missed those scarlet lips move, that voice like silk in her ear.

“No.”

 

-

 

Heather had given her a list, and an envelope of cash. She was to buy just a few things: some shoes, gloves, a hooded jacket, a mask, all stuff that Heather Chandler wouldn't be caught dead in. All from different stores in different parts of town. The other Heathers, too, were given some small tasks to prepare for that dreadful evening, and carried them out in ignorance.

They must have wondered. Veronica knew at least Duke would question, but neither would dare say anything to their glorious leader. One day, the burning questions on their lips would outweigh their fear of Chandler’s wrath, and everything would come tumbling down.

In her journeys around Sherwood, Veronica met three people – Martha Dunnstock, Ram Sweeney, and Jason Dean.

 

-

 

She ran into Martha, almost literally, while shopping for the hoodie. After the initial babbling of apologies from both parties, Martha realized who she’d bumped into, and a huge smile bloomed across her face.

“Veronica! Oh, I’m so happy to see you!” Before Veronica could react, she was pulled into one of Martha’s bear hugs. That was the one thing you had to know about her, Martha was way stronger than she let on.

“Hey, Martha,” Veronica gave a little laugh, trying to free her arms as she spoke, “Listen, I’m really sorry I’ve been missing movie night for the past few weeks, I’ve just been real busy with-”

“Oh, I know,” Martha interrupted, “I get what you’re trying to do.”

What.

Veronica giggled nervously as Martha finally let go of her, letting the feeling return to her limbs and panic rise up in her throat. Martha grinned, completely oblivious to Veronica’s discomfort.

“You’re making the Heathers into nicer people!”

 _What_.

The girl in the pink unicorn shirt rambled on as Veronica stood there, half-listening, half-shocked.

“I mean, I got all your notes you sent - they were really nice, thanks Veronica - and I saw when you were slipping one into my locker, Heather Chandler was looking at you and smiling! And, I mean, Heather Duke is still kinda rude, but the other two haven’t said _anything_ mean to me in the past few weeks. You’re doing really well!”

“…Thank you?”

Well, that was something. Veronica had been too busy worrying about Chandler and covering up murders to be aware that she was doing any good. It almost made her feel better about…everything. It was like a drop of light in a dark ocean; nice for a moment, but soon to be swallowed by the blackness.

Like Martha herself, if she wasn’t careful.

Any excitement on Martha's face suddenly fizzled out. She stared off into the distance, eyes unfocused, like she was listening for something.

Weird. Martha was one of the few sane people in Veronica's school. Naïve, yes, but with a good head on her shoulders. She had better not be slipping as well.

 “So… you’re kinda… worrying about something right now.” She talked like she was giving a speech in front of a class, the words unfamiliar. Veronica nodded, and Martha gave a little smile before responding. “I shouldn’t ask what it is, but… I think you’re doing the best you can. You did your best to try and stop it, and what you said might have worked. She’s just scared of hurting you.”

“Who is?” this was all sounding all too recognizable. _How? Why?_

From the shrug she gave as she walked away, Martha understood just as much as Veronica did.

 

-

 

She shoved the hoodie, a shapeless dark grey thing, into Chandler’s locker the next day. Heather McNamara caught her eye, and she gave Veronica a solemn nod, like she was a mourner at a funeral. Veronica’s paranoia spiked – if Martha somehow knew, then McNamara might too.

And if McNamara knew…

 

-

 

Veronica encountered Ram trying on some sneakers as she was looking for some shoes for Chandler. Something to cover up her real height, Heather had instructed, and something that she could easily run in.

So, sneakers, essentially. It occurred to Veronica that the concept might not be familiar to Heather.

“Hey, ‘ronica,” Ram rolled the ‘r’ in a way she was sure _he_ thought was seductive, “Come here often?”

“No.”

His brain took a while to catch up with that (what was he expecting her to say?), and Veronica used to time to move past him. Ram hopped after her, still struggling to tie his shoelaces.

“Why are you here, then?” He asked.

“None of your business.”

“You getting something for Heather?”

He didn’t specify _which_ Heather, but it was enough to cause Veronica to flinch, and she didn’t need to turn around to know there was a stupid grin on the linebacker’s face.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Kurt’s having a Halloween party soon. No Remington assholes, no Martha. Don’t suppose you and Heather Chandler would like to come along as two slices of bread? I’ll be coming as the _meat_.”

Veronica did not need this right now. She whipped around, filled with the sort of fury and exasperation she imagined Chandler felt every day of her life. Ram stumbled at the sudden movement, but managed to stay upright.

“Ram, do you ever think with anything other than your dick?”

Ram didn’t respond, and Veronica pressed on, eight years of irritation getting the better of her, “I mean, you were always kinda stupid, but it used to be cute. Now you’re nothing but a puppet, and you either don’t know or don’t care who’s pulling your strings. The one person who still cares about you, who doesn’t use you? You push her away.”

She turned on her heel and stomped off, and this time Ram didn’t follow her.

 

-

 

Veronica put the shoebox in a bag, covered it in tissue paper, and gave it to Kurt. He was quicker on the uptake than Ram was, but was still hooked, like a fish, on the promise of sex that the Heathers offered him. They could drag him any which way they pleased and he would follow, seeking something that they never intended to give him.

(Not that he didn’t try to take it himself.)

He opened the bag to take a look inside, but Veronica clasped the opening shut.

“Just take it to Heather, okay? You don’t wanna see what’s in there.”

“Yeah, I do,” he replied, “What is it?”

Veronica paused for a moment. It worked last time…

“Tampons.” She said lamely, and Kurt’s face twisted into a look of disgust that was almost comical. He scurried off, holding the bag like it was toxic, and Veronica saw out of the corner of her eye a girl in green watching her.

A girl who knew she was full of shit. 

 

-

 

Halloween was just around the corner, so Veronica was spoiled for choice in the mask department. Cartoon characters, witches and vampires taunted her with blank faces as her eyes landed on a white half-mask. That would keep Heather’s mouth free to…

“Ooh, very phantom-esque. You deciding on your costume early?”

Veronica screamed internally.

“Actually,” she replied in her best nonchalant voice, “I was planning on haunting the gym. Living in the boiler room, getting Principal Gowan to save me a bleacher. It's all looking pretty good right now.”

The soon-to-be-late Jason Dean chuckled. Not nearly as cruel as the last one she’d heard, but there was a hollow quality to it that made it sound slightly off. She’d missed his laugh.

She was going to miss his laugh. 

_No. Keep it together._

“Finally making the decision to leave the Evil Empire, are you? Good to hear.”

“I hate to say it, but the Heathers are growing on me.”

“You mean like a fungus.” JD remarked, his hatred hidden behind a thin veil of composure, “Eating away at you, making you rot and turn to mush.”

“I’m changing the system from the inside, JD. Nobody has to die for everyone to be nicer.”

There was a flicker of confusion on his face before the loathing in his voice became far clearer.

“How long is that going to take? How many more people have to suffer under them for you to fix it all? How many won’t make it to the end of the year because of the _Heathers_?” he spat out the last word like it was a curse.

_Already one too many._

“How many won’t make it because of you?” Veronica snapped, and immediately regretted it when she saw JD recoil. She tried a softer approach. “You may not stick around long enough to see it, but people can change. Even people like Heather.”

“Seems like _you_ already have.”

JD tone was somewhere between disgust and horror, like Veronica's words were of the highest heresy. She shrugged noncommittally as she went to buy the mask, her heart sinking.

He hated her. Veronica just knew it. He hated her more than ever, and he was right to do so. Because, as much as she cared about JD and his well-being, she was far too scared, too entranced, to prevent his death.

 

He didn’t say anything as she left. He was too busy sulking. Seething.

Plotting.

 

-

 

Veronica gave the mask to Chandler in person this time. It was in Heather’s bedroom, a place that Veronica now very much associated with psychological scars, but she had come emotionally prepared this time.

She was pretty sure she had, at least.

Veronica watched as Heather turned the mask over and over, her hands trembling slightly, face carefully blank.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Veronica’s whisper was enough to jerk Heather out of her trance.

“Yes, I do.” If there was one thing Heather Chandler hated, it was being questioned, even if there was no doubt she was in the wrong. “Who else is it going to be? Kurt? Heather? _Martha_?”

That last name cut deep. A slumped figure, pink and red, rose up in Veronica’s mind.

_What you said might have worked._

“I don’t…” Veronica ran a hand through her hair.

“…Know. Of course you don’t. There are no good options here. Either I pick someone who kinda deserves it, or someone who’s actually worth something ends up like David.”

“You don’t know if you have to kill people.” Veronica repeated. Heather looked up at her, sighed, and tossed the mask into a corner.

“I’m not using you as a guinea pig, Veronica. Give it a rest.”

“I’m not down with murder, remember? You said so yourself.” Heather raised an eyebrow, and Veronica nearly choked on her own hypocrisy. “Well, I mean, I can cover up a murder just fine, but I don’t want to be responsible for someone’s death.”

“Then why are you helping me?” 

Veronica knew the answer to that.

She was too afraid to say it aloud.

 

-

 

There wasn’t a whole lot Veronica could do to stop Heather. Sunlight had no effect on her, and Veronica hadn’t had the opportunity to test out holy water or religious symbols. Silver was the one weapon she knew she had, and her only option she had in that regard was a tarnished old spoon she found in the silverware drawer. She imagined slapping Heather with it would be like spraying a disobedient pet with water. _No. Bad Heather. No murdering my old crush._

Congratulations, Veronica, she thought to herself, you’re going into the worst part of town armed with nothing but a spoon. And here she thought she couldn’t do anything more stupid than she already had.

Oh, the things you will do when you care about others far more than you care about yourself.

Amongst the empty streets, the shadows, the little noises that made her jump, Veronica spied the Sherwood 7-Eleven. Moving closer, eyes darting this way and that, she peered through the windows, searching for a familiar trenchcoat in the cold, barren aisles.

Nothing.

This could be good, she thought. Maybe Jason was staying home tonight.

Maybe Heather had already got to him.

What _was_ it with Veronica and intrusive thoughts lately?

She sighed. She had no intention of entering the alleyways nearby. Veronica wasn’t outright suicidal. They were worth a peek regardless, in case she found either Heather or JD’s corpse. A confirmation. So long as she stayed in the light of the streetlamps, so long as she didn’t actually go in, she’d be fine.

Right?

Well, it was a waste of time, for the most part. All Veronica saw in most of them was murky black, or the occasional small shift of movement as a raccoon abandoned its trash can.

Up until the last one.

In that one, she thought she saw two shapes.

The first one grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her in. Veronica felt something cold and sharp against her neck. Of course. Of course she was going to die. She had imagined it as a gunshot, or being burned at the stake, or, more recently, in a flash of jagged teeth. But no.

Here lies Veronica Sawyer, who never knew when to leave well enough alone.

“Money,” the deep voice growled, “Give me your money. Now.” 

Veronica laughed.

She laughed and laughed, even when the knife was pressed harder against her neck, even as the man cursed and yelled at her to shut up. She laughed with the sort of relief no-one in her situation could possibly feel, because the voice that spoke was not Jason Dean’s.

Jason Dean was not going to die tonight.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

The knife fell to the ground as the mugger lost his grip. As he was dragged into the darkness.

He didn’t even get the chance to scream.

Veronica laughed and laughed and laughed until she cried.

 

In the past, Veronica had fantasized about Heather Chandler kissing her. At a party, perhaps, or in some secluded corner of the school, having those red lips press against hers, demanding, determined. She was sure she wasn’t the only person at Westerburg who’d dreamed of that.

But this wasn’t a dream.

This was a damp, dark alley in the middle of the night. There was a dead body not ten feet away from her, there were tears running down her face, and there was the metallic smell of blood on Heather’s breath. Reality was turning out stranger than any dream ever could be.

“You idiot,” Heather mumbled as she kissed Veronica again and again, “you absolute fucking dumbass.”

This was what Veronica wanted. Jason Dean alive and well, Heather Chandler kissing her. This was what she wanted all along. 

Was it worth it?


	7. Haunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather and Veronica bond.

They found the body a few days later.

The police couldn’t identify the guy, for the life of them. Veronica didn’t want to think about why that may be, but Heather insisted she hadn’t been _that_ rough.

She _did_ admit to stealing his wallet, though. That made Veronica laugh.

It was a disturbing thought, but the whole sick situation was becoming almost normal. Heather had gone through the five stages of grief in record time, and now carried herself with careful confidence, a little calmer, more self-assured than before. A part of Veronica hoped that she had something to do with that, like all the stupid shit she put herself through for Heather had somehow paid off.

It had paid off in other ways, of course. Like that night in the alley.

It wasn’t obvious, not in public. It was the little things. Every look, every smile lasting a touch longer than it used to, hands brushing when they were sure no-one was looking. It was the sort of secret romance that would have made Martha squeal with delight, had it been with anyone but Heather Chandler.

Their ‘study’ sessions were becoming a lot more frequent. It wasn’t nearly as dirty as it sounded (not when they were at Veronica’s, at least). For the most part, Veronica and Heather just talked. About life, about school, about whatever weird idea Heather had come up with while she was left alone. Veronica had known about those wild thoughts since Heather had rung her up at some ungodly hour to rant about aliens and sweepstakes, but it was still odd to think of Heather Chandler as someone with a vivid imagination.

Of course, Veronica was content with listening to the sound of Heather’s voice.

She was in _way_ too deep.

 

It was on one such day, with Heather’s arms wrapped loosely around Veronica’s shoulders, that they were interrupted by Veronica’s mother calling up the stairs.

“You friend Heather is here!”

Veronica felt Chandler tense.

“Which one?” Veronica called back.

“The…” her mother paused, “the yellow one?”

Okay, well, not Duke, that was a start. That means she wasn’t there to confront her about the shoes, or the fake testimony, or any of the other lies Veronica told her. Not yet, anyway.

With a sigh, Heather reluctantly removed her arms from Veronica and picked up her notebook, settling into a comfortable position as the sound of thudding footsteps moved up the stairs and stopped outside Veronica’s bedroom door.

There was a knock, just one, before Heather McNamara burst in.

“…Oh.”

She sounded almost disappointed with what she saw. Heather arched an eyebrow, and McNamara shrunk under her gaze, as she always did.

“I heard you were here,” she mumbled, “Kurt says that he’s having a Halloween party soon. Can we go?”

Veronica had almost forgotten about that. Heather frowned.

“Do I even dignify that with a response? Of course we're going. I assume we’re not getting wasted on a Tuesday night, though.”

“It’s going to be Sunday,” McNamara clarified, gaining a little courage from Chandler’s approval. 

“Might be needing a late pass on Monday, then.” Heather hummed, before turning to Veronica with just a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. “Are you going to go?”

Veronica nodded, before realizing that this was a big step for Heather. Asking someone else’s opinion, and expecting the answer to be no. How was it that the simplest things from her surprised Veronica so?

Heather’s satisfaction quickly changed to confusion as she turned back to the girl in yellow.

“Who told you that I was going to be here?”

“Oh! That boy in the trenchcoat Veronica liked. James Dean, I think.”

The room went deathly quiet.

 

-

 

It wasn’t a Halloween Party, not really. A few feeble attempts at costumes had been made, a witch’s hat here, some devil horns there, but no-one had made a real effort. Halloween was for kids, after all, and everyone was so desperate to prove they were adults.

Heather had pressed a red cup into Veronica’s hand early on, giving her a smile before heading off with a member of the football team. Rationally, Veronica knew that this was what was expected of Chandler – hard drinking, hard partying, a shameless flirt, and anything to the contrary of that image would arouse suspicion – but Veronica couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as Heather gave that sultry smile to someone other than her.

It wasn’t until Ram caught her eye that her attention was drawn to something else.

Namely, the steak duct-taped to his chest.

 _He wasn’t joking about coming as the meat._ That revelation was the scariest thing so far.

“I, uh…” he stammered incoherently, and Veronica wondered if he had forgotten what he was going to say, “I invited Martha. That’s who you meant, right?”

“What? Really?!” Veronica looked searchingly among the partygoers before Ram waved his hand in front of her face.

“She said no,” he continued, “something about a movie night. That, and the last party she went to didn’t end so great. Was that the right thing to do?”

This was the first she had heard about a movie night. A little part of her felt betrayed, but she figured Martha must have felt that way when Veronica left her for the Heathers. In fact, Veronica should be happy for her, finding new friends. This meant she was moving on.

“Yeah…” Veronica breathed, before bringing herself back to the present, “Ram, how do you actually feel about Martha?”

He shrugged. “I mean, she’s weird, but she’s okay, I guess.”

“Did you invite her because you wanted to be nice, or because I yelled at you?”

The silence, and Ram’s deer-in-the-headlights look, spoke volumes.

Poor girl.

“Veronica!”

Ram beat a hasty retreat as Veronica’s attention turned to an agitated Heather McNamara.

“Something wrong?” Veronica asked.

“No. Well, yes, but no,” McNamara babbled, “I thought you deserved to know. Tracey brought a Ouija board, and I told them not to use it, but Heather Duke said she wanted to talk to someone.”

Veronica felt a wave of cold fear wash over her. Normally she wouldn’t believe a wooden board had any supernatural powers, but recent events meant she couldn’t afford to be skeptical.

“Who?” Veronica croaked, fully expecting the answer to be ‘David’. McNamara hunched over, bitten nails digging into her arms. Veronica barely heard her answer over the revelry around them.

“Betty Finn.”

Any sense of dread was replaced with white-hot anger.

“ _Where is she?_ ”

McNamara hesitated. “On the patio,” she said eventually, and the little whine she gave was barely noticed as Veronica stormed off.

This was a targeted attack, Veronica thought as she carved her way through the drunken crowds, it had to be. Duke knew. Duke _knew_ what Betty meant to Veronica. Why else would Duke pick _her_ over all the other dead people in Sherwood, other than to get a reaction? Was it jealousy? Plain old spite? Was it-

Her thoughts were interrupted when she bumped into something red.

Veronica was so close. She could see the green, hear the crowd calling out the letters as the marker moved around the board. She tried to continue her rampage, but Chandler moved from side to side, blocking her advance.

“You are _not_ causing another incident.” Veronica stopped when she saw the vaguest flash of worry on Chandler’s face. “What’s got you like this? Spill.”

“Heather’s trying to bother Betty,” Veronica seethed, jabbing her finger towards Duke, “she’s doing it to provoke me! She knows! She knows what she’s doing, Heather, let me through!”

“Not until you tell me who Betty is.”

Oh.

Some of Veronica’s anger subsided, and she took a deep breath. “Betty… Betty Finn was a friend of mine. When we were in kindergarten, Martha wanted to make sure everyone had a friend, so she’d go to the quiet kids. Me, Betty-” she stopped herself from saying _Heather Duke_ ( _traitor_ ), “We were all friends until the end of middle school.”

“What happened?”

Veronica glared, forgetting herself for a moment.

“ _She died_.”

Heather suddenly became fascinated by her shoes. Embarrassment. Another thing you didn't expect to see from her.

“It was a hit-and-run,” Veronica continued, hatred building inside her once more, “they caught the guy who did it. He had the _balls_ to say he didn’t see her. _Bull-fucking-shit_. He had a stop sign, he should have _never_ gone that fast around the corner.”

She barely realized that there were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. She barely realized that Chandler’s hands were on hers.

Veronica was, however, painfully aware of the look Heather was giving her.

“Don’t lash out now,” she commanded, low, sinister, “wait. Let her think she’s safe. Spread the word I’m looking for her.”

Veronica screwed her eyes shut for a moment, before nodding.

“Don’t kill her,” she mumbled half-heartedly. Heather grinned.

“I’ll try not to.”

 

Veronica told Kurt, who had grinned lecherously at the thought of the two together, but managed to keep his mouth shut before shuffling off to share the news. Veronica stared at the bottom of her cup for the rest of the night, trying hard not to think about what she might have just agreed to do. Chandler had vanished from the crowd shortly after their conversation, and Veronica saw Duke wandering about, stopping to ask questions, before finally coming to Veronica.

“Where’s Heather?” It was snappy, haughty. Just a touch of anxiety under the surface. She knew she had done something wrong.

Veronica didn’t look up. “I think she went upstairs.”

Duke paused for a moment, like she was about to say something, before turning on her heel and walking away. 

 

Duke stumbled back down the stairs some time later, pale and disheveled. She had given McNamara a wild-eyed look when the taller girl went to check on her, and disappeared into the crowd. Chandler came down to the ground floor a short time later, with a great deal more poise than Duke could ever hope to have.

“What did you say to her?” Veronica questioned when they finally met. Heather gave a vicious smirk, and Veronica realized with some concern that her lips were a darker shade of red than they were before.

“I didn’t say anything.” Heather replied, sickeningly sweet, before lowering her voice to a whisper, “ _She would have figured out it was me if I did._ ”

Well, Veronica had always wanted someone to stand up for her.

Still trying to process whatever the _fuck_ Chandler had just done, she saw Ram and Kurt following Duke’s escape route. Any worry Veronica might have felt faded away when Heather took her hand.

She made it so easy to forget.

 

-

 

On Tuesday, Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney were declared missing.


	8. Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gang solves a mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is the 7th of November. The seventh day of the eleventh month.  
> Guys.

No bodies had been found.

That was good, Heather McNamara had said, frantic hope written all over her face, that meant they were still out there.

No-one had replied. Even Heather Duke, usually so eager to crush any optimism the girl in yellow had, was silent. Perhaps she realized the disappearance of the two boys was bad for her, too.

There was no wall of muscle between them and the rest of the student body now. The Heathers, so used to being mythical beings, untouchable, invulnerable, were now open to attack.

It was the little episodes of irreverence that Veronica noticed. Someone bumping into them and not getting down on their knees to beg for forgiveness. Snide comments overheard in the hallways. Veronica was forced to remember what that experience was like, after getting so used to the protection that being popular once offered her. 

No-one was happy about this.

Except, of course, Jason Dean. 

He was lurking in the corner of her vision, watching for Veronica's reaction, and Heather McNamara’s admission led her to believe that there were many times before where she _hadn’t_ noticed him. She was doing her best to avoid giving him what he wanted, but it was getting harder to evade his gaze.

He looked… ill. The dark shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, his cheeks slightly sunken. Veronica had many theories about what triggered this change, and she didn’t want to think about any of them. There were too many other things to think about.

Father Ripper, the local pastor, had been asked to say a few words about tolerance to the student body as Ms. Fleming handed out copies of the note that had been found near Ram’s empty car.

According to said note, Kurt and Ram were gay lovers, and tired of hiding their forbidden romance from the world. Determined to be free of society’s judgement of people like them, they had made a suicide pact.

That would have been fine and dandy, if there wasn’t a conspicuous lack of corpses.

As the sermon ended, Veronica stuck close to Heather Chandler as the students filed out of the gym. She could feel dozens of eyes on her back, but she shivered at the memory of one dark, calculating pair. For what purpose did he want her alone? Veronica had her suspicions, terrible thoughts that ate away at the already fraying threads of her sanity. She wanted to believe there was good in everyone, but…

“I’m not leaving you on your own,” Heather whispered in her ear, “I’m keeping someone with you. You’ll be safe.”

As usual, Veronica desperately wanted to believe her.

 

-

 

Heather McNamara took to her assigned duty like a fish to water. True, she often paled in comparison to the sheer force of Chandler’s personality, but she was still a Heather. One minute she’d be chatting merrily to Veronica, the next she was shoving someone into a locker for a callous comment about the missing quarterback. It was pretty obvious to Veronica that McNamara was still firmly in the denial stage. Her refusal to accept reality, willing the world to set itself right by pretending nothing was wrong, was almost calming.

It was, until Martha approached the two.

“Veronica, I need your help. Something doesn’t add up. Ram and Kurt must have been tricked!”

Martha must have been really sure about herself to even approach when one of the Heathers was about. McNamara was moving from one foot to the other, searching for Chandler to tell her what to do.

“You know what?” Veronica replied, “I think you’re right, Martha.”

Martha grinned.

“What do you mean? They found a suicide note.” McNamara queried, but from the doubt in her voice Veronica could tell Martha's certainty was starting to shift her opinion, as well.

“The handwriting’s just a little off. Ram has problems with writing ‘Gs’ and ‘Ys’, but these ones are just fine. I mean, a decent effort for anyone not paying attention.”

“You might not know this, but Veronica’s really good at faking people’s handwriting,” Martha added conspiratorially. Veronica shook her head when McNamara looked at her.

“I don’t think Kurt is gay,” the girl in yellow said, haltingly, “like, he’s dating me, so…”

“And Ram kissed me on the kickball field in kindergarten!”

“Can you like both? I mean, can you like boys and girls at the same time?”

“Pretty sure you can.” Veronica said evenly. McNamara’s eyes widened.

“What I’m saying is we go looking for them.” Martha proposed. “They must be around somewhere, they can tell us the truth!”

Years of life beating down her blind optimism should have made Martha more cautious than this. From what Veronica could gather, she was considering exploring the parts of town the search parties had feared to tread. A search for one’s true love after everyone else believed them dead.

Buttercup jumping off a cliff to chase after Westley.

Veronica really shouldn’t have been surprised.

 

-

 

It was stupid, it was wrong, but Veronica couldn’t get it through Martha and McNamara’s heads that maybe this was a bad idea. Sure, she wanted to two knuckleheads alive and well just as much as they did – actually, probably not as much as Kurt’s girlfriend and Ram’s long-time admirer - but she was also aware there were worse things than dead bodies lurking in Sherwood.

The scene, at the edge of the woods, had tape around it. No police. No guards. Just whatever Martha’s heavy-duty flashlight showed them. It was mainly an empty car and numbered footprints. Anything important had already been found, bagged and tagged.

Martha and McNamara still insisted on looking around.

“There might be something they’ve missed!” Martha said, like she was on a scavenger hunt instead of ruining a crime scene, “It might be the key to solving the mystery!”

“Scooby-Doo shenanigans aside, the police here _are_ pretty useless,” McNamara supplied.

“Thanks for your faith in the system, Heather.”

“No problem. See?” McNamara pointed to a spot on the ground, discolored by something dark. “It hasn’t been marked.”

Martha pointed the flashlight at the patch of dirt, moving it around like a searchlight as McNamara wandered away, further into the night.

“Heather, no.” Veronica warned. McNamara didn’t seem to hear, and Veronica quickly lost sight of her.

Well, shit. Now she had a choice to make.

Martha was still examining the ground. Her concentration made it easy to imagine her holding a magnifying glass, twirling a moustache as she tried to find some meaning in nothing. She’d been through so much, and yet she was still so innocent. She was too good for this town, for this world.

And McNamara…

Well, there had to be something deeper there. While she was more open with her emotions than the other Heathers, Veronica refused to believe the girl in yellow had nothing to hide. Everyone was hiding something these days. If she went missing too, Veronica would never know, and she would never forgive herself for letting it happen.

“Martha?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to make sure Heather’s okay. Can you get into the car?”

Martha checked the locks on Ram’s pickup.

“Huh. I can. Did you do that?” she asked the empty air. Veronica reconsidered her decision for a brief moment.

“If you hear anything strange, lock yourself in. Okay?”

“Oh! Hold on a sec!”

Martha fished around for something in her pocket, before presenting it to Veronica.

A long loop of twine.

“So you don’t get lost.”

Better than breadcrumbs, she supposed. Veronica smiled. “Thanks, Martha.”

“You’re a good friend, Veronica.”

The guilt made her chest tighten. Once again, Veronica left Martha behind to chase after a Heather.

 

The twine ran out long before McNamara’s footprints did. Veronica did her best with a rock, carving marks into trees, but there was only so much she could see with what little light the crescent moon provided.

_You need to stop doing this yourself, Veronica._

Whenever Veronica saw a slasher film, she and whoever else was with her at the time would yell at whatever poor bastard thought it would be a good idea to wander alone into the dark corridor, the abandoned warehouse, the cabin in the woods. Maybe it was expected from Heather McNamara, head cheerleader and member of the popular clique (come on, it was like she was _asking_ to die), but Veronica really should know better.

Helping when she shouldn’t. Helping people do terrible, awful things. She tried to do the right thing, but it always ended in tears, if not blood.

Whatever grisly fate awaited McNamara in the woods, she didn’t deserve it. Veronica did.

 _Stop it_.

The footprints led through a clearing. While they kept going, Veronica paused.

“The hell?”

It was barely above a breath. 

There was a huge stone slab embedded in the ground, and it was covered in that same dark substance McNamara had discovered.

Creeping forward, Veronica knelt to examine the stone more carefully. There were carvings, unknown symbols worn down by time, that looked far, far older than whatever had been done here. White wax, pooled around melted candles, marked five points on the circle of weathered markings.

Somebody knew this was here. Somebody knew what to do with it.

 _What_ had they done with it? 

A streak of yellow, and Veronica was knocked flat on her back as Heather McNamara’s knee collided with her nose.

There was a primal fear in the cheerleader’s eyes. “Run!” she yelled, and Veronica didn’t bother to ask why.

It was difficult, stumbling, like a foal taking its first gallop around the paddock. Veronica was still reeling, blood dripping down her face and into her mouth as she tried and failed to match McNamara’s pace. The girl in yellow skidded to a halt, and Veronica yelped as McNamara picked her up and threw her over her shoulder, breaking into a sprint.

“Too slow!”

Veronica dared to look up, trying to see what was chasing them. She saw a blurry red figure, and for a split second an image of Chandler flashed in her mind. No. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t. McNamara was her friend, had done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t scare her to the point where she was running through the woods, fearing for her life.

Red wasn’t the only color Veronica saw, though. She saw white, too. A familiar letterman jacket, and it belonged to...

 _Dear God, no_. 

The number of trees tapered off as they came to the edge of the woods, and McNamara none-too-gently placed Veronica back on her feet. Veronica couldn’t balance herself in time, and fell backwards.

Someone caught her.

That someone was wearing green.

“What the fuck, Sawyer?” Heather Duke was getting better at being more offended than anxious. Not quite there yet, but definitely better than usual.

Veronica saw Ram’s car out of the corner of her eye as she got to her feet. Martha, as instructed, had locked herself in at the first sign of danger.

Veronica had gotten so used to the Heathers and their behavior that she forgot they would probably constitute a danger.

“You’re bleeding.”

Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. The worst possible person for the circumstance was coming to Veronica’s aid.

Chandler was on her in a second, cupping Veronica’s face with one hand and frantically searching her pockets with the other, presumably (hopefully) for a Kleenex or something. She couldn’t hide the worry, or the hunger, in her eyes. The more human Heather seemed, the more Veronica was reminded that she wasn’t.

Veronica pinched the bridge of her nose experimentally. It hurt, sure, but it didn’t _feel_ broken. That was a good start.

“Something’s rotten in the town of Sherwood,” she told Chandler, voice thick, almost slurred, “We need to leave. Now.”

“Door!” McNamara’s voice was hoarse, and she was still struggling for breath as she pounded on the car window, “Please! Door!”

With some hesitation, Martha unlocked the passenger side door just as McNamara’s fist broke through the glass. Martha and Duke both shrieked at the crash, and Martha jerked her hand away from the sudden shower of shards. McNamara just brushed away the worst of the mess with her bare hands and jumped in, twisting in her seat to unlock the back door. She looked at the other two Heathers pleadingly.

“In!”

“You really think I’ll be sitting in the back seat?” Chandler asked incredulously. “Maybe once you start using full sentences, I’ll-”

“Heather, get in the fucking car.”

Duke's voice sounded like her throat was closing up. When Veronica peeked over Heather’s shoulder, she found her wide eyes were firmly in the woods behind them.

Veronica knew exactly what she saw.

Chandler whipped around, ready to verbally destroy Duke, but Veronica swung open the car door and pushed Heather inside before she could get the chance. Duke slipped in behind them, slamming the door shut, face so pale it was almost grey. Heather turned to face Veronica, hurt, before _she_ saw them too. Veronica didn’t know if the brief flash of black in Heather’s eyes was real or imagined, but Duke’s gasp may have been an indication towards the latter.

Martha screamed.

The old pickup roared to life, despite the fact there was no key in the ignition. Martha, bless her heart, sprang into action, and Veronica knew she didn’t exactly have a lot of practice driving. It became immediately obvious to everyone else, too, because she forgot to pull the handbrake the first time she floored the accelerator. Once she did, though, Veronica heard the wet thump of something hitting the car as it swung wildly around, speeding away from the crime scene, taking the 'Do Not Cross' tape along with it.

And Veronica thought she had prepared for the worst.

 

-

 

Once Martha was sure they had gotten away, she pulled over (mounting the sidewalk as she did so) and immediately tumbled out of the car. As miraculously as it had started, the pickup’s engine died.

The passengers got out with slightly more grace, but McNamara was still trembling and tears were still streaming silently down Duke’s cheeks. Chandler’s jaw was clenched in that distressingly familiar mix of anger and fear. Veronica was still dizzy from the ride, the running, and possibly a little bit of blood loss.

Together, they sat on the curb in suffocating silence. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” 

McNamara had encapsulated the feeling of the moment perfectly, but that didn’t stop four heads turning towards her in shock. McNamara didn’t swear. She used the word ‘like’ as if it was a comma, and had a bad habit of ending perfectly good sentences with ‘and stuff’, but she certainly didn’t swear loud enough that the word echoed through the empty streets.

It was enough to break the trance.

Martha doubled over, weeping. Veronica tried to get up, to hug her, rub her back, _something to stop her crying_ , but Heather was holding her in place.

“Heather,” she began, unnaturally calm, “what street are we on?”

Duke stood, walking a few paces down the road.

“Clermont.” She called back. Chandler digested this information.

“Whose house is closest?”

After a moment of relative silence, punctuated by Martha’s sobs, McNamara raised a shaking hand.

“Good.”

Chandler got up, pulling Veronica with her. She looked pointedly at McNamara. “What are you waiting for, the cops to show up? Move.”

McNamara scrambled to her feet and trotted along ahead of them. She was probably just happy to have some direction at last, Veronica mused. Duke followed along, and Veronica saw her tentatively touch the base of her neck as she did.

Chandler, on the other hand, was waiting.

Waiting for Martha.

Veronica was glad she was already leaning on Chandler for support, because that was this was the sort of event that would knock her off her feet.

The Queen of Westerburg nudged the crying girl with her foot. Martha froze in fear, her breath hitching.

“Get up.”

Martha was already testing her luck by not immediately springing into action. Instead, she looked up at Chandler, mouth hanging open.

Veronica could see Heather struggling to bite back any cruel comments as she spoke. “Unfortunately, it was _you_ who saved all our lives tonight. I let you have this now, and I don’t owe you shit later.”

That was how the world worked, for Heather. A network of deals and favors. Martha allowed herself a small smile, her red-rimmed eyes now on Veronica.

“You did it.” she breathed, and Martha hopped up from her spot on the curb to hurry after the other two girls. Heather sighed, like she’d just accomplished some Herculean task.

Veronica rewarded her with a peck on the lips. The terrifying creature of the night jumped back in surprise, and Veronica reckoned a blush would be spreading across her face, if she could still blush. Veronica grinned giddily at the thought of making Heather turn as red as her outfit.

Maybe blood loss was a heavier factor than she realized. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline from earlier in the evening.

Maybe, and the idea both excited and terrified Veronica, she loved Heather Chandler.

Love.

Not a crush. Real, deep, sickeningly sentimental love.

And when Veronica saw Heather’s eyes soften and felt an arm slide around her waist, she knew that was the right answer. 

The horrors of the night, and whatever the new day would bring, were briefly forgotten as Heather and Veronica trailed after their friends.


	9. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heather Duke tries to do the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shine a Light is my favorite song from the musical.
> 
> Warning: Depictions of violence, body horror and character death in this chapter.

It wasn’t really a sleepover. More like a collapse-from-emotional-and-physical-exhaustion… over. Everyone found a reasonably comfy spot in Heather McNamara’s bedroom and pretty much passed out.

Veronica was no exception to this. Not that her slumber lasted long.

She kept seeing them. Kurt, at least. He was the one chasing McNamara, he was the one Veronica saw clearly. His sternum caved in, chest and mouth gushing that same oily goop that Veronica had seen on the stone. Withered, dried out, stumbling along as fast as he could, his footballer’s form forgotten.

Grey face. White eyes. He looked almost betrayed, frightened. In her mind, he was closer than he had been, grasping and groping at her with ruined fingers, trying to speak through the flood of inky-black pushing out of his throat. Veronica couldn’t breathe, either. She felt her chest tighten, and she was sure she felt something leak out of _her_ mouth, too…

 

She woke to something around her ribcage.

“Good. I was hoping to wake you.”

Heather’s face was nuzzled into the crook of Veronica’s neck. Hugging Veronica from behind seemed to be her favorite position, and Veronica wasn’t exactly going to complain when Heather’s lips were so tantalizingly close to her collarbone. Veronica leaned back, hoping to get a few more hours of sleep in.

“You looked like you were in pain. Do I need to take you to the ER again?” Heather asked.

“ _No!_ ”

Well, there goes that plan.

“No,” Veronica repeated, a little calmer this time, “I’m fine. It’s just a nightmare. It’s fine.”

Heather stiffened. “What about?”

“Kurt.”

Heather hummed. Not her. Veronica felt special, as the one person Chandler didn't want to scare.

A pause.

“I know something that might cheer you up.”

Veronica was about to say _Really, Heather? Right now?_ Before Heather released her, and pointed upwards to the bed.

McNamara was twitching in her sleep. Not just her eyes, or anything. Everything. Legs. Arms. Like Martha’s golden retriever used to do. The bedsheets that were twisted around her legs were testament to just how violent, and how constant, it had been.

A guilty giggle escaped Veronica’s mouth.

“Don’t wake her.” Heather cautioned. “It’s the only entertainment I’ve got right now.”

“Not even going to try and sleep?”

“Already have. So many times. It’s not like I need to, anyway.”

Veronica rolled over, so she could see Heather’s face. More annoyed than anything else, just like the last time they had talked about it.

“Listen,” Veronica began. “I know it’s a stupid thing to suggest-”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“-and I know ignoring it just makes it worse. But… I’d like to pretend we’re normal. Watch movies, go bowling. Just every now and again. I want to do normal teen things while I’ve still got the chance.”

Heather watched her carefully, conflict on her face. Her reputation was built on not being a normal teen. Being something better.

There was long silence, and Heather’s thumb brushed Veronica’s wrist. Along white, stretched scar tissue.

“I’d like that.”

 

-

 

The Heathers, Martha and Veronica had a meeting, as the sun rose. They had all verbally agreed that the events of the past night hadn't happened. At least, they would pretend it hadn't until they could figure out what exactly was going on and how to fix it. For their own sanities, if nothing else.

Chandler privately admitted to Veronica that the whole 'being normal kids' discussion wasn't included in that.

"There aren't any good releases out at the moment, though. I think something's coming out in the next few weeks. Can you wait?"

"Are you asking me out on a date, Heather?" Veronica asked playfully. Heather gave her a small shove.

"Announce it to the world, why don't you? Of course I am. Just for you."

 

-

 

Somehow, going into school on Monday was worse than running from what was left of Kurt and Ram.

There was something in the air. A fear, some unknown horror that had infected the student populace. It wasn’t awe that was on the faces as the Heathers walked by. It was something wrong, something angry, something Veronica couldn’t name.

Perhaps the peasants were finally waking up. Ready with their guillotines. Waiting for a signal.

Martha bumped into Veronica, giving her a significant look as she pressed something into Veronica’s palm.

Paper. Ripped from a notebook or a diary, scrunched up. Like it had been passed around.

Written in Heather Chandler’s favorite pen. In Heather’s handwriting. 

_October 30th._

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I killed Kurt and Ram_.

 

The cafeteria is always crowded. The lunchtime poll was forgotten as Heather read through the note for the hundredth time that day.

“I didn’t write this.” She reiterated.

“I know, Heather.”

“That pen went missing weeks ago.”

“I know, Heather.”

"I don't have a diary. It's a waste of effort, writing something no-one else is going to see."

(That last one wasn't entirely true. Heather had tried to keep a diary, suggested as a way to keep her thoughts in order. It ended after her first entry, which was just the word 'FUCK'.)

It was clever, Veronica had to admit. If Heather stuck to her guns and denied it was hers (and this was true, Veronica believed, she rarely wrote notes, let alone a murder confession), then suspicion would fall on Veronica instead. A plan designed to eliminate one or the other, possibly both.

Now, who hated both Heather Chandler and Veronica Sawyer equally?

 

-

 

People were willing to talk to her, provided the Heathers were out of sight. She was the nice one, after all. The Good Heather. The Not-Heather. The most human of them all.

This meant she was the one suffering the brunt of the taunts. The questions of how she could live with herself, protecting a killer, things she’d already asked herself countless times. Country Club Courtney, ever self-righteous, was leading the verbal charge. 

“Shut up, Courtney.” Veronica had snarled after one too many comments about her moral fiber.

“Or what?” she shot back, “You’ll sic the slasher movie villain on me? Oh, but Heather hasn’t done anything wrong, has she?”

Veronica hesitated just a second too long for Courtney’s liking, and seethed at the self-satisfied smirk.

Something clicked in Veronica’s brain.

“You’re _so brave_ , aren’t you, Courtney?”

Veronica could see the gears turning in the Young Republicanette’s head. As she realized Veronica wasn’t just paying her a compliment.

“Look at how noble you are!” Veronica’s voice was saccharine as she sauntered towards the mediocre mean girl, “How you’re standing up for the poor little victims I know you hated, because it makes _you_ look good. How courageous of you to pick on me instead of Heather, because _you’re_ afraid of what might happen if you did!” She was right up in Courtney’s face now, and she could make out her clenched jaw and her slightly too wide eyes, refusing to meet Veronica’s gaze. In an instant, her voice went from sweet to scathing. “Why don’t you shut your goddamn mouth and back up your words with actions, for once?”

It was like time stopped. Courtney was frozen in place, and the crowd that had formed around them was waiting for her reaction.

Nothing.

Veronica grinned, and walked away.

 

Veronica flipping her bitch switch had helped, a little. Courtney the upstart ruler was put in her place, and with the head of the rebellion cut off, everyone else fell back into their usual routines. The hierarchy was still around. _Go about your business, citizen_.

“ _Look at them. So easily manipulated_.”

Fuck. That wasn’t Veronica’s internal monologue.

So much for ignoring JD.

He had changed so much, Veronica thought, or perhaps it was just her perception of him that had evolved. His smile, his relaxed posture was that of someone in complete control. Supremely unconcerned by the tension in the air. It’s part of the reason Veronica was attracted to him in the first place.

But his eyes…

There was a darkness in them. Warped. Twisted. Something that shouldn’t be alive. 

“Those two jocks were just a symptom of the sickness.” He went on, clearly taking some morbid satisfaction in the situation. “All of them just… believed it. I mean-” he chuckled to himself, and the name was almost lost in the laughter, “-Heather Duke hated those two, it was so obvious, but they were so, so blind. She called them up, and off they went.”

That creeping, growing horror that closed up Veronica’s throat was getting way too familiar.

 

-

 

Veronica found Duke in a far-off corner of Study Hall, quietly reading. As usual.

“Heather,” Veronica murmured, and she was impressed by how little her voice shook, “I have a question for you.”

Duke flipped over the page before the deigned to look up. It was very clear from her disgusted expression that she did not want to answer.

At this point, after bringing up Betty, after luring Kurt and Ram to their deaths (if JD was to be trusted, which was admittedly questionable), after dragging Chandler into the two mysterious murders she _didn’t_ commit, Veronica didn’t give a flying fuck what Duke wanted.

“What did you say to Kurt and Ram on the night they went missing?”

Credit where credit was due, Duke was getting a hell of a lot better at keeping a poker face. The only hint she knew exactly what Veronica was on about was the sharp intake of breath.

Duke turned another page before answering. It was careful. Every word clearly enunciated, but still mostly unheard over the hubbub of the hall.

“I told them that if they went to the edge of the woods, off Mercer Way, they’d get a surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“I don’t know.” Duke shook her head. “I didn’t go.”

There was something more to that statement. “Why?”

No immediate answer. Veronica regarded Duke, who was beginning to shrink under Veronica’s scrutiny.

“Do you know what I think happened, Heather? I think you knew something bad was going to happen to them. I don’t think you really cared. I think that if you didn’t call them-”

“Oh, shut your fucking mouth!”

Veronica was used to the venom of the Heathers by now, but there was something scared, something absolutely miserable in Duke’s tone that gave her pause.

“What is your _damage_?!” Duke hissed through gritted teeth, “Like you’ve never made a bad decision in your life! I didn’t know what would happen! Who put you up to this? Was it Heather?” Her eyes narrowed. “ _Did she turn you?_ ”

Veronica went cold.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Duke seemed to remember herself, and all the color drained from her face. She gathered her bags and pushed past Veronica, muttering to herself as she disappeared from sight.

 

Veronica found Chandler in between classes, one question burning through her.

“The party,” she blurted out when they had a split second alone, “the Halloween party. What did you do to Heather?”

Heather lifted her upper lip and tapped her teeth with one perfectly manicured nail.

 _She bit her_.

Veronica ran her hands through her hair. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong? She’s alive, isn’t she? The experiment was a success. Nobody has to die.”

“She knows about you.”

Heather went very still.

“She knows,” Veronica echoed, “and she knows I know. It all fits too well to be anyone else. She knows your locker combination. She had the opportunity to take your pen, easy. She told Ram and Kurt to go to the woods, that night they disappeared. She could have-”

The piercing whine of megaphone feedback interrupted Veronica’s ranting, and the distorted voice of Ms. Fleming echoed through the halls.

“Okay everybody, into the gym! Assembly time, come on, vamoose!”

“Forget what I just said.” Heather growled as she and Veronica were swept up in the sea of students, “Heather is _done for_ come 3 P.M.”

 

-

 

This was the worst possible outcome. Not only was this an assembly about sharing your darkest secrets, this was an assembly attended by news crews from what looked like the entire state. The camera lenses and the little red lights were judgmental eyes boring into Veronica’s mind, worsening all the guilt and shame and self-loathing and threatening to drag it out of her mouth.

She stood next to Heather, the two of them like statues as Fleming spoke about how much she understood about the inner workings of the adolescent mind, and how her degree from Berkeley meant her opinion was the undeniable truth of how to deal with any and all emotional problems. She expected teens to be ‘understanding’ and ‘accepting’ of other people’s struggles – how could they be if they didn’t understand their _own_ emotions?

Also, some guy called Steve was sexually unsatisfying, and now the whole state knew about it. Poor Steve.

“Okay kids, come on, now, I want you to work with me!” Fleming appealed to the crowd, “I want you to share your pain! I want you to drag it out into the light where we all can take a look at it!”

Someone cleared their throat. They held out their hand, and Ms. Fleming, ignorant, gave them the microphone.

Someone took a deep, shuddering breath, preparing themselves.

That someone was Heather Duke.

“I have a confession to make.”

Veronica felt a crushing pain as Chandler grabbed her hand, holding it in a death grip. 

“I think I’d be right in saying that we’ve all done something that we didn’t really want to do.” Duke began, and the entire student body voiced some sort of agreement. “Someone had some information about me that I didn’t want to share, and it seems so stupid now. They asked me to do them a favor and I did. I didn’t realize it would lead to something really bad. I tried to save myself, but doing that just put an… innocent person in the firing line.” 

Someone else was coming closer to the center of the room. Veronica’s eyes followed him. His hand was in his trenchcoat, not visible. She made a choking noise, the warning dead in her throat as Duke’s eyes flicked to Heather. The girl in red squared her shoulders, releasing Veronica and striding forward to meet her doom.

She’d never turn down a challenge.

All eyes were on Duke for once, egging her on. JD was right. They _were_ blind. Veronica tried to say something, anything to stop this, but it was like all the air was sucked from her lungs.

“There are things that I’ve seen that I didn’t think were possible,” Duke continued, “things I thought were only in fiction. But some monsters are worse than others.” She swallowed.

“ _Jason Dean killed Kurt and Ram, and I helped him do it_.”

 

How many times had Chandler pushed Duke out of the way? Shoved her aside so she could be the center of attention, as always?

There was something different about it this time.

A gunshot. Originally aimed at Duke's forehead, now under Chandler's chin.

Heather Chandler’s head snapped back as the rest of her body crumpled beneath her. As she died a second time.

Chaos reigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for doing this to you.


	10. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica is upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already had this mostly written by the time I posted the last chapter, so you wouldn't have to suffer too long.
> 
> Warning: Depictions of violence and mentions of suicide in this chapter.

Black vanished. Green fled. Screaming. Yelling. Fleming failing to control. Always failing. A million eyes on that moment - they all failed her.

Red. Not bright. Not passionate. Dark, organic. Flesh and bone. Not Heather. Get up, Heather.

Get up.

“Get up!”

Eyes flickered. Shining. Tears?

A rough pull on Veronica’s shoulders. Dragged away.

Not again.

Veronica’s screaming now, too.

 

-

 

Went to class, once school re-opened. No notes taken. Stared blankly at board. Repeated until day was over. And over. And over.

No-one spoke.

Embarrassed after rumors proved wrong, perhaps. Still frightened? Unsure of what to say?

Courtney was absent. Ashamed? No.

Attacked, they said. Mugged in an alley. In hospital.

Blood loss, they said.

Veronica laughed.

 

-

 

Closed casket affair. Of course. Violent death. Framed picture sat on top of casket. One of Duke’s efforts.

Where was Duke?

Escaped. Declared missing. Not wanted, yet. Afraid? Of being charged? Retribution? Maybe black, dripping down her chin. Servant becoming a slave.

Afraid. Understandable.

Sitting in front row, next to McNamara, Last Heather Standing. Two others: One, serene sorrow. Grief behind a veil. The other, rougher. Impatient. Checking his watch.

His watch. Here. Now. 

_(“Dad’s some big executive, so he spends most of his time at meetings in New York. Mom’s a flight attendant.”_

_“What about your grandma?”_

_A scoff._

_“Stuck in a chair at the Old Folks’ home. Those weekly visits are a waste of time, anyway. She doesn’t even remember me.”_ )

 

Stayed longer than the rest. Martha and McNamara behind her. Watching the mountain of flowers sink and shrink in the rain. Flowers wilt. Temporary. Only good for funerals, Heather said. 

( _Smooth skin. Pale. Cold. Marble._ ) 

Like her tombstone.

“She’s not in there.”

Worried eyes. Knitted brows. Didn’t need to look to know they were there.

McNamara. “Where else would she be?”

“Don’t know. Not here.”

Martha, unsure. “She’s dead, Veronica. I’m sorry, we all saw it.”

A sob? A laugh? Not sure what noise came out of her mouth.

“She’s been dead for the past few months. This is nothing.”

Silence.

 

-

 

Things started to go missing. Cords. Ropes. Razors. Pills.

Not subtle.

Not suicidal. Not really. No. _No_.

Told Martha. Told McNamara. Not suicidal.

Doubted.

Fair.

 

-

 

Window left open. Closed over and over, always opened again.

Stupid, really. Hope. Longing.

Dead, but talking. For months. Didn't stop her then. Why would it change?

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Sleep always took her eventually. 

( _Heather had tried to sleep again, once. She was there. Woke up in the middle of night. Heather sitting up._

_“It’s nothing.” Comforting smile._

_Lies_.) 

Awakened by a ghost. Grey. Faded, like an old photograph.

Veronica cried. Begged for it to say something. Some sign that it was her.

Dismay. A wheezing breath. Lips moving.

Gone.

 

-

 

Never walked home alone. Always Martha or McNamara with her. Martha worried. Always had.

McNamara…

“I hear someone moving around. I mean, I can’t see them, but I hear them, you know? Their footsteps. Whoever they are, they can come on out or they can leave.”

Watched. One would save her. One would end her.

Who watched?

 

-

 

( _“I wish I’d done this when I was alive.”_

_Not often that sadness slips into Heather’s tone._

_“What do you mean?”_

_A finger moving. Pointing at red, then blue._

_“This.”_ ) 

Veronica imagined. Warmth instead of cold. Still hard. Not desperate, though. Confident. Possessive.

Little would change. She’d still lose her. Blue poison on red lips.

Hot tears down Veronica's face.

Her fault.

 

-

 

The ghost reappeared in a different form.

Faded blue scarf, so familiar. Hiding its face. No-one recognized. No-one saw.

It beckoned her. She followed. Enthralled. Legs moving on their own.

Martha grabbed her hand. Led Veronica away. Dangerous. She was being watched. Remember?

No dark alleys. No abandoned roads. A killer was on the loose.

 

-

 

“I know you were lying about David.”

McNamara, determined. A shock to her system.

“How?”

“Both of you smelled like blood. Like, when you were helping Heather to the bathroom.”

Weighing the information. McNamara, fidgeting. Waiting for approval.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Well, no. That would just make more problems.”

“Why now, then? How did you smell it over everything else?” Leaned closer, examining. “What are you, Heather?”

Something shifted behind her eyes.

“I’m Heather.” Tense. Afraid. Angry? “I’m Heather. No-one else. Nothing else.”

 

-

 

Awake again. Heather. Heather, Heather, Heather.

( _Lips, teeth, hands in her hair. Fingers tracing patterns on her thigh. Her touch._ )

Still here. Veronica knew. Still here. Where? Why not here?

Noises from outside. Climbing. Window creaking.

Hope. 

Dashed.

Trenchcoat. Cool grin. Fiery eyes. 

Veronica ran. Hid. Not him. Cold with fear. Hot with anger.

Like him. _You’re like him_.

“In the closet? Really? Baby, there’s no need to hide anymore! Come on out and get dressed, you’re my date to the Pep Rally tonight!”

“Get out of my house! I’ll scream, my parents will call the cops!”

“I thought getting rid of that thing would fix your mind, but I’ve figured out what it is.” Pacing. Rustling of paper. “It’s _them_. The whole school’s been corrupted. It’s gotten to you. It’s alright. I figured out how to save you.”

No. No salvation for her. For him. Bed sheet from the upper shelf. Twisting. A rope.

“Here’s what I’ve done- I’ve built a bomb. Everyone’s in the gym tonight, I can get rid of them all in one go. Heather Duke’s being taken care of. I didn’t even have to write a fake suicide note for her, she did it all herself!”

Didn’t deserve it. Not Duke. Even Duke. Her fault. His fault, so her fault.

Around her neck- 

...No.

Not yet. Too many lives at risk. Dead tell no tales.

Around her waist. Then neck. 

“We’ll be free! We’ll sit and watch the flames burn all the bullshit away.” Volume building. Mad crescendo. Mad. “Two pure souls killing all the monsters, you and me! Veronica, I need you! I worship you! Come back to me!" MAD. "VERONICA!”

Footsteps stomping towards the door. Eyes closed, waiting. Hanging.

A crash of splintered wood. Light, orange through her eyelids.

Shocked silence.

“Veronica…” Broken. “No… Please don’t leave me alone…”

( _“_ _I’m sorry, Ronnie, don’t leave me alone…”_ )

Rage. Misery. “They’re gonna pay. They’ll burn for what they did to you.”

Footsteps staggered away. Muttering. A slip of fabric. A thud outside her window.

Silence, for a moment. 

Some unknown presence. Cold, feather-light fingertips on her cheeks.

A noise. Cracked.

Sobbing.

Pause.

Fingers on her throat now. Feeling her pulse.

Caught.

A voice. Her mother, from below.

“Veronica? Veronica, your friend Martha is here to see you…”

A kiss to her cheek. Cold. Quick.

 _Real_.

Bedsheets shifted. Veronica fell.

The presence faded. 

Veronica’s eyes snapped open. 

Footsteps. She struggled to remove the makeshift rope before the bedroom door opened.

Not her mother, thankfully. Just Martha.

Her oldest friend, Martha. Of all people, she’d understand, surely.

“Oh my gosh.” Martha rushed forward, reaching out to help Veronica to her feet. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“JD.” Veronica muttered. Martha froze, taking in the remnants of Veronica’s closet door.

“He was here?”

Veronica nodded. “I’m sorry I haven’t been making much sense lately, Martha. I know it worries you.”

“It’s fine. I just want you to be okay.”

“I know. I know.” Veronica paused. “Listen. He’s going to do something awful. Worse than killing Heather and Ram and Kurt. I need your help.”

“I’ll try. I’m not sure if anyone will listen to me.”

“Then I’ll _make_ them listen.”

Veronica grabbed her croquet mallet from its place beside her bedside table. She had meant to use it if JD had shown his face, but in the heat of the moment, she panicked.

That would not happen again.

“Everyone already thinks I’m crazy.” Veronica surmised, “Not without good reason, yeah, but if I tell them there’s a bomb, they’ll just write me off as a nutjob.”

“ _There’s a bomb?!_ ”

“That’s what he said,” Veronica shrugged. “so if I can’t get people out of the gym, I find the bomb and… defuse it. Somehow.”

“Get it out into the football field.” Martha interjected. “You might set it off accidentally.”

“And nobody has to play football. It’s a win-win.”

“Heather’s already there – she’s cheering, obviously. I’ll let her know, too.”

“Good. So we-" Veronica's breath hitched. "Shit. Duke."

Martha's eyes widened. Veronica wasn’t sure it was possible given how much white was showing already, but Martha had been finding ways to surprise her, lately.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. JD said something about a suicide note. He might be planning to kill her and make it look like she did it herself."

Martha whined. Then, she got that look on her face again, like she was listening to something Veronica couldn’t hear.

“She’s fine. Well, she will be. I’m sure of it.”

Martha was always patient with her, hadn't gotten upset when Veronica kept secrets from her. Now the tables had turned, Veronica couldn't help but feel a little frustrated.

“How do you _know_ that, Martha?”

“I just do. Please don’t ask me to explain, we don’t have time!”

“Goddammit!”

There were still so many questions, but so much at stake. Veronica was halfway out the window when Martha pulled her back in, pointing at the stairs with a stern expression.

"Now is not the time to look cool."

“One question," Veronica pleaded, "Just one, okay?"

“…Okay.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Martha?”

Martha turned to look at something – no, it had to be someone - behind her.

“Yes.”

Veronica smirked. “I thought so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a dilemma about how I was going to do this - I could either use a different writing style to reflect Veronica's Heroic BSOD, or I could switch to a different character's viewpoint while Veronica had a mental breakdown. I went with the former, eventually, but I still have a mostly-finished version from Martha's perspective. I might replace this chapter with that, depending on how its received.
> 
> EDIT: It's been received pretty well, as it happens. The alternate chapter can be found at shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com


	11. Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gang saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of violence, body horror, and character death in this chapter.

Alright. Step one in Veronica’s plan to stop her crazy ex-… something: locate said crazy ex-something.

That wasn’t hard. He had straight-up told her where he was going and what he was doing. It was just a matter of stopping it in time.

Walking wasn’t exactly an option, what with time constraints and all, so Veronica had taken a deep breath and asked her parents to borrow the car. Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer exchanged a confused (and slightly suspicious) look, before Veronica’s mother nodded her head.

“You have fun tonight, sweetie.” 

Why did they never do anything to stop her? She knew they thoroughly disliked Heather, but they always let her in, and kept their passive-aggressive comments under wraps until after Chandler had left. Veronica had worried, once, that she’d be another victim of these mysterious attacks, and while she assumed at the time her parents would do something about that, the doubt grew within her as the weeks went on.

Veronica didn’t hate them. Of course not. She just wished they had some courage. 

“When will you be back?” Her father asked. Veronica pursed her lips.

“That’s a good question.”

 

-

 

_How many years had she been working on this? How many years had she spent constructing this identity for herself, this idea of Heather Chandler? How much had she sacrificed for that image, that position, that open-mouthed awe, the attention she so desperately craved?_

_It didn’t matter. That effort was wasted. Thousands had watched as the gunshot tore through her throat and out the back of her head. There was no bullet, mind you. The Desperado, pussy that he was, had loaded a blank. Why he didn’t go full Van Helsing, she didn’t know, or care._

_What mattered is that she couldn’t be Heather Chandler anymore. That Heather Chandler was dead._

_What was left?_

 

-

 

Veronica didn’t even bother to lock the car doors as she and Martha raced from the car park towards the gym. She really should feel some guilt about that. Veronica supposed that Martha would feel enough worry for the both of them.

Come to think of it…

“Hey, Martha. Can you get your ghost friend to run some interference? I dunno what they can do, so-”

“She’s not here,” Martha replied, regretful, “she’s off finding Heather.”

“Ah, nuts. I was gonna ask ‘em to possess the PA system, or something.”

The thrumming noise coming from the gym was threatening to overwhelm their conversation.

Veronica stopped at the gym doors, croquet mallet readied. “Here’s the plan – look for bombs. Under bleachers, near supports, wherever you can get to. If you can’t find any, look for any signs of JD. I don’t think he’ll be that obvious, but just in case. Okay?”

Martha set her jaw, and nodded.

Veronica opened the door, the barrier between them and the cacophony destroyed. She looked back into Martha’s tired, worried eyes.

“Heather’s been real worried about you,” Martha said, almost too quiet to hear, “be as safe as you can be.”

Martha always knew exactly what to say to throw Veronica for a loop. Veronica nodded, pushing the thought into the back of her mind, and they entered the gym.

 

-

 

_She found them on the Old Mill Bridge. Three of them, one limp. A ragdoll._

_The other two…_

_Ugh._

_She’d vaguely seen Kurt, that night she’d followed Veronica into the woods, but not Ram. She wondered if anyone had spotted them – the quarterback and the linebacker, both seeping black, oily liquid, and Ram missing a good chunk of his face and jaw. If someone did see them, they might not have thought the two were real._

_Did they even have free thought? Or were they bound to the will of that creep?_

_Not important. They probably had reason to throw Heather Duke off a bridge either way._

_She had feared them, once. Idiots they may have been, but they had physical strength that she didn’t. If she hadn’t led them on, with promises she hoped she never had to keep, they would have just taken it._

_She’d had plenty of that from the Remington boys. The world didn’t need any more guys like them._

_When Kurt and Ram were hers to control, they had bled red. Like everyone else. Like they should._

_Now, they bled black._

_Fitting, she thought, as she pulled them apart like paper._

_-_

 

Veronica had severely underestimated how hard it would be to actually get under the bleachers without anyone noticing. Even if she did manage to squeeze past the throngs of students to get a glimpse under their seats, the bleachers were packed, letting no light through.

Dammit. Weren’t bombs supposed to have convenient flashing lights so people could see them? What about digital counters, and colored wires?

Veronica had never been more disappointed with Hollywood. And with Westerburg, to be honest.

The unabated roaring of the hundreds-thick congregation both infuriated and confused her – how could they be so happy now when they had been so scared and angry before? It hit her soon afterwards, as she crawled under the shaking seats. They wanted a distraction. In this case, it was Stinson High and the football playoffs. The Rottweilers would fight to their last breath, regardless of how many they lost along the way.

“Veronica?”

Ah, shit. The internal monologue had distracted her yet again.

Veronica's eyes rose to meet the gaze of Ms. Fleming. The foam finger on the teacher's hand was almost as accusing as her stare.

“I lost something down here,” Veronica lied.

“You mean your croquet mallet?” Fleming replied dubiously.

“…Yes.”

Fleming sighed, crossing her arms.

“Veronica, I know the last few weeks have been tough on you. Heck, they’ve been tough on all of us, but you need to stop dwelling on it. You have your whole life ahead of you, remember that.”

Veronica didn’t need this right now.

“Ms. Fleming, what’s under the gym?”

Fleming’s eyes flickered or a second, remembering. “The boiler room.”

Lots of mechanical devices down there that could do some damage. And the boiler, of course. Filled with flammable gas. Just her luck.

“That’s it.”

“What’s going on? Veronica, it’s my job to help you-”

Veronica scoffed. “Like you helped Heather Duke?”

She strode away with a surprising amount of dignity for someone who had been on her hands and knees just a moment before. Fleming stood motionless, watching her leave, looking like she’d just been slapped.

Veronica really should have felt far more guilt than she did. Well, she reasoned, everyone had to face their failures sometime.

 

-

_Heather Duke was not conscious. Still breathing, though. She checked. Like she checked with Veronica._

_Duke had fought back, she noted with some approval. The bruises, the shattered wrist and snapped leg, at odd angles, were testament to that. In her pocket, a suicide note._

_She felt the words were truthful, or at the very least written in Duke’s own hand. Confessing to the phone calls and the forged notes. Feelings of regret. Self-loathing._

_As expected._

_A talon brushed across Duke’s neck, pushing back her blazer to examine the just-healed wound on her collarbone. A dent in the skin, as vicious and angry as the one who made it._

_Heather Duke was a puppet. Used and belittled by Heather Chandler. In her attempts to cut her strings, she didn’t notice new ones were being added. Dark, thin threads no-one could see._

_She wonders what the Rebel Without a Cause had promised Duke that Chandler couldn’t offer. Power. Freedom, perhaps. All Duke ever wanted to do was read in peace, after all._

_She always felt a certain responsibility for those under her. She hadn’t meant to take the shot for Duke, of course, but her days brooding over the incident made her feel at peace with the decision. Heather Chandler, in her own fucked-up way, had cared._

_Maybe that’s why she heaved the damaged girl onto her shoulders, and carried her away._

 

-

 

“Step away from the bomb.”

Now _that_ was a bomb, Veronica thought. Not big or impressive in any way, but the little red digital timer affixed to the front let her know exactly what she was facing.

JD, hunched over his creation, didn’t move straight away. He didn’t even turn to look at her. He just laughed, the sound hollow, and Veronica struggled to remember a time when he had genuinely seemed happy.

“This little thing?” he shrugged. “This is just to trigger the packs of thermals upstairs in the gym. Now _those_ are bombs.” He chuckled again, and turned.

Veronica gripped her mallet, white-knuckled.

He had his gun.

Jason Dean had his gun, the one that killed Heather, and he was pointing it at her head.

Veronica refused to be afraid.

“I don’t want any speeches from you.” Veronica warned him, “I just want answers. How do I defuse the bomb?”

“Were you jealous?”

Veronica frowned, ever so slightly, her arm still tensed. “What?”

“Heather Duke never meant anything to me. I promise. It was always you,” JD’s eyes hardened, and there was such pain behind them that Veronica almost took pause, “until you ruined it.”

Veronica stepped forward, raising the mallet slightly. She noted with some satisfaction that JD’s hand was shaking.

“I’ll ask again. How do I disable the bomb?”

“I’m saving them, Veronica. The only place that people of different social statuses can get along is in heaven! Don’t you want everyone to be happy?”

And Veronica was doing such a good job with staying calm. 

There were so many things she could say to JD.

She could try and comfort him. Whatever happened with his mother, it clearly taught the best way of solving problems was with death. She could tell him that his father may be semi-psychotic, but he didn’t have to follow in his footsteps. His parents, his background, should not define him.

She could lecture him. On how high school wasn’t a reflection of society, it wasn’t the be-all-and-end-all. That he was wrong about status, and Heathers and Marthas could get along just fine if they tried. That his real enemy wasn’t society, it was pride and fear. Fear, which he sowed like a farmer, letting it grow and twist until it was time for the harvest.

But the timer on the bomb was ticking away, grains through the Grim Reaper’s hourglass. 

“You know what I want, JD? Cool guys like you _out of my life_.”

She brought the mallet up above her head, and swung.

 

-

 

_She had told herself, many times, that she wasn’t a monster. Even as she latched onto David’s throat and bit down. As she slashed a lowlife to ribbons with fang and claw. As her Veronica screamed and pulled away from her._

_Not a monster. Monsters don’t feel bad about the people they hurt. But how many lives had she ruined without a second thought, even as her heart was still beating?_

_It was different, now. Now she was sitting next to a delirious Heather Duke (“I knew it. I knew it. I’m dead.” “Shut up, Heather.”), waiting for the sound of sirens to come around the corner._

_It wouldn’t make up for what she’d done. For what she was going to do, no doubt._

_She hoped that Heather Chandler would be remembered as human._

_Not good._

_Just human._

 

-

 

The gunshot caused a ringing in Veronica’s ears that threw her off balance. Her wild lunge missed its target.

_Okay. Get the gun off of him. Step one._

She swung again, aiming for his wrist. He pulled away. The mallet whooshed harmlessly through the air. JD gave her the same sneer as he gave Kurt and Ram. The one that got her attention.

What a fool she was.

A fist closed around her arm. Her mallet fell to the ground. Fuck. Veronica couldn’t hope to take JD in a real fight. He knew that. She moved to pull away…

_No. Don’t. Confuse him._

She charged forward instead. A knee to his stomach. Rewarded with the wheeze of a man winded. The clatter of a fallen weapon. With her free hand, she grasped for the gun. A rougher set of hands shot out to meet hers. Both grabbed the pistol at the same time. Veronica pulled it close. A treasure. JD struggled. Pulling. Twisting. Trying to take back what was his. The timer ticked down.

A finger on the trigger.

Bang.

 

-

 

_She should have never let Veronica deal with Dean._

_She let it happen anyway, because Veronica knew Evil Deckard better than she ever did. Maybe she’d be able to talk him down. She’d let it happen because they didn’t know where Duke was, and she was faster than Veronica or her fat friend._

_Well, that, and because she was told to. She bit back any snarky remarks. She imagined it’d be pointless arguing with a ghost – they had all the time in the world._

_She shouldn’t have gone to the Westerburg High gym. It was too dangerous, someone might recognize her, and she was bound to attract some sort of attention when she was covered in black goop. But that’s where Veronica had told Martha she would be, as she listened outside Veronica’s bedroom window._

_She remembered Veronica’s sobs, her pleas, begging in broken sentences for her to say she’s real, and her throat was still too torn up for her to reply._

_She wouldn’t do this to her again._

_She pulled up her hood, tightened Veronica’s scarf around her neck, and set off._

 

-

 

It hurt. Of course it hurt, Veronica scolded herself, it was a bullet in her gut. The pain bloomed like flower, burning, dark red spreading across her blue blazer.

Red. Blue. Ha.

Veronica stumbled, teetered, and finally fell again t the wall, clutching at her wound.

JD’s face was spasming in the corner of her vision, twitching in strange ways. W s it her imagination? The pain making her see things?

No. She had to stay awake. _Stay awake, Veronica, or the next ti e you close your eyes m ght be your last_.

Deep Breaths.

“Was it good for you, JD?” Veronica snickered at his horrified face, “It kinda sucked for me.”

“I…”

“Oh, so now you’re lost for words, are you? You’ve got no problem killing everyone else, why am I so special?”

“You cared!”

Veronica la ghed in the face of evil. She gestured skywards with her head, and stars danced acr ss her vision.

“You think they d n’t? You never gave them the same chance you gave me.”

She cou dn’t move. The world was skipping, swaying, but Vero ica focused on any detail that c uld stop the creeping cold seepi g into her bones.

Bomb. Boiler. Trenchcoat. tears.

 

Did it hurt to die?

 _No. you w n’t die. S ay awa e,_ V ron ca told hers lf 

 

 

 JD’s voice, m ffled. unde wat r.

 

“yo  w re spec al”

N t special. soul stai ed bla k like h s

 

blac  at the cor ers of  er visi n NO BLACK NO BLACK. STAY AWAKE, STAY ALIVE.

 

 

 

_Breathe, brea he focus  n breathing, Veronica, h art still beati g breathe in out i  out_

bomb

 

                                                                                   boiler

                                                            trenchcoat

 

tears

 e weeps he  ndersta ds n w he’s b ck he can sti l be sevente n

 

can she

i 's c ld

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

pink

who else was wit  th  m rt a why was sh  usin  the blue mallet she w s  e    

 

 

w rm, s fe arms pu ling  er cl se

 ink p nk pin p nk pi k nothin  b t pink sway ng to  nd fro  side to si e

carr ed aw y

crying. cr i g. _d n’t c y f r me_.

 

bang. bang. bang bang. clickclickclickclickCRUNCH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Deep breaths, Veronica._

_In…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further information on this chapter can be found at shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com.


	12. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty and Veronica are reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of body horror in this chapter.

It was a blur. Half-seen things in Veronica’s mind, and she had to keep reminding herself that no, the things that she was seeing could not be real. She couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, some sort of heavy weight on her chest as the phantoms spoke to her. Each one faded like dust in the wind, only to be replaced by another. Veronica wasn't sure how much time passed between each one. All she could do was mentally scream for something, anything, to wake her up.

 

Heather Duke was the first, her head stuck at an odd angle, a lump on the side of her throat.

“I completely understand if you hate me. I want you to know I didn’t realize he was a total psycho. Just a smooth talker with a shitty fashion sense. I don’t know where he got those pictures of me and Martha, but… God. I don’t know why I was so scared.”

 _Her spine._ The lump was Heather Duke’s spine. A broken neck, Veronica realized, but she couldn’t yell. Duke didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in her stories, the frustration and fear that was always on the edge of her voice let loose.

“I wanted Wonderland. I wanted Heather Chandler out of my life, I wanted to be left alone with my books, no-one shaming me or making fun of me. I didn’t realize just how deep and twisted the rabbit hole was. I shouldn’t have done what I did.” Her voice cracked. “I thought I could fix it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Heather. Sorry, Veronica.”

Her head flopped down, still on an angle, and her body was wracked with sobs as she disappeared.

( _Heather Duke is fine. She’s a couple of floors above this one. She hates that she can’t do anything without someone else’s help. She’ll never play the piano again, either, but she’s a little less torn up about that._ )

(There was someone behind her. Some sort of presence. Veronica couldn’t turn to see what it was.)

 

Ram and Kurt appeared together. Kurt was the one doing the speaking, stopping to cough intermittently. Silently, Ram watched, black dripping from the roof of his mouth, no jaw to stop its descent. What was is left of his face did look mournful, Veronica noted. She hated that she had to look at them in the first place, but they at least had the decency to look sheepish.

“ _We didn’t know,_ ” Kurt told her. “ _I mean, now we look back on it, there was a lot we didn’t get. Dad always told me to be careful around girls, and I think he meant to be gentle with ‘em ‘cuz they break easier, but I took it the wrong way. I thought they were something alien, you get me? Girls do weird things I don’t understand, and no-one ever explained why. I thought, well, you’re never gonna get it, Kurt. Don’t even try. Just enjoy it._ ”

Kurt poked his finger experimentally into the hole in his chest, and Veronica desperately wanted to retch. Ram delivered a swift elbow to the quarterback’s ribs, and he jumped, as if remembering Veronica was still there.

“ _Ram wants you to know he’s sorry about Martha. He likes her, but not like that. He had other things on his mind. Right, man?_ ” Ram nodded earnestly, sending another shower of oil over both the vague, shifting floor and Veronica’s face. Kurt shrugged, and they, too, vanished before her eyes.

( _They’re at peace. Please believe me. They can’t hurt anyone, or be hurt, anymore._ )

(The voice was bypassing her ears altogether, speaking directly into her brain. Like Kurt’s voice did. Faint, but clear.)

 

Heather McNamara was next, showing up her cheerleading uniform, and Veronica’s messy memories told her that she shouldn’t be there. McNamara wasn’t dead, was never at risk of death… unless Veronica had failed, and this was her personalized hell. The thought made her eyes sting, tears threatening to fall but never doing so.

She wasn’t a burnt-out corpse, so it couldn’t have been the bomb. There was a hole in her shoulder, a bullet wound, but that shouldn’t have killed her. Veronica could see that McNamara’s muscles were shifting under her skin, rippling and bulging in unnatural ways. It was far more frightening than the previous, mostly static ghosts in her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, the sclera almost overwhelmed by red, and the irises were…

Oh.

They were yellow.

Of course they were. That was her color. This was a hallucination, after all. That wasn’t what McNamara actually looked like.

“I’m not sure why Martha wants me to do this.” She spoke like she was at an unwanted date, and Veronica had to wonder how many times that had actually been the case, “It’s not like I don’t want to talk to you or anything, you know, it’s just stupid to try. You can’t hear me.”

 _But I can_ , Veronica tried to say, and it occurred to her for the first time (far too late, she scolded herself) that there might be more to her suffering than a series of nightmares.

“Um… Westerburg’s fine, don’t worry yourself over that. I got the bomb out onto the football field, like Martha told me. I like her, she’s a really good person. You think I should tell her…?” She remembered herself, and the question on Veronica’s lips went unanswered, “Oh, right. You can’t talk. Um, I... broke your croquet mallet. Sorry. I used it to clock JD, but Betty-” _Betty?_ “-stopped me from killing him.”

She paused, clenching her jaw. The fire in McNamara’s bright eyes looked dangerous enough to burn down a whole forest.

“I wanted to,” McNamara whispered. “I hate that I wanted to. That’s not me, you know that, right? I’m Heather, and I hate that I keep having to remind myself of that.”

(There was the faintest sigh from behind Veronica. Still female, but different from the voice.)

 

JD didn’t speak at all.

He just stood there. Perhaps he was in the same situation as Veronica, she thought numbly. Together in Hell. That sounded about right.

At least he could move. He kept balling his hands into fists and releasing them again, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes swiveled in their sockets, never stopping long enough to focus on one point. As the seconds ticked by, JD was withering. Not really aging so much as drying out. Painfully sunken cheeks, leathery skin. He was almost skeletal when he finally stepped into Veronica’s personal space.

Veronica had so much she wanted to do to him. Scream, yell, cry, slap him. She had given him so many chances to be good – he turned them down, and she couldn’t stop him from doing some truly horrific things. There was good in Jason Dean, Veronica had always and would continue to believe that, but dark determination had won the day.

He wanted to say something. It was written all over his face. Veronica, with the inability to do anything physical, mentally prepared herself for a rant or a punch or another gunshot.

It was none of those. It was worse.

He sunk to the ground like someone cut his strings, and gave a long, wordless wail. As his voice cracked, so did he – hairline fractures formed on his face, fingers fell away, breaking on the unseen ground like dropped china.

He crumbled into ash, his anguished cry still echoing in Veronica's ears.

( _I’ve been to his hospital room. It’s under police guard. He won’t be able to use his silver tongue anymore. Heather McNamara got him right in the jaw._ )

(“I should still kill him.” A far more familiar voice husked from behind Veronica. The sound of flowing water after a long trek through the desert.)

( _You'd be giving him what he wants._ )

(A growl was the only response.)

 

No visions, this time. Only noises. Muffled words, long, drawn out. The faint echo of a single-pitched noise. A dial tone, perhaps?

( _Don't die, Ronnie. Please don't die._ )

("She won't. I refuse to let it happen.")

She was dying? What a shitty way for Veronica to find out she was still alive - with the knowledge that it was all going to go away.

( _What are you doing?_ )

("Do you want her to live?")

( _Of course-_ )

("Well, this worked last time.")

( _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ )

There was... a crash, Veronica eventually determined. It sounded like it was in slow motion, more like a roar than anything else. That tone, had it been a heart monitor? No matter. From its sudden absence Veronica could tell that it had been sent flying.

( _NO!_ )

Something was pressed to Veronica’s lips.

Life. Precious, beautiful life flowed down her throat, exquisitely sweet. Ambrosia. A dull ache returned to her limbs, and whatever was weighing on her chest disappeared, allowing for a shudder of breath.

Slowly, in unfocused pieces, the world around her took shape. 

White walls. Tiled floors. Starchy, mint-green sheets covering her lower body.

A hospital room. That made sense. Veronica had been shot, after all. The shattered heart monitor was on its side in the far corner, and Veronica could hear the sounds of hurried footsteps coming down the hall. A gentle breeze told her she not only had a window, but that it was open. She rolled her head to one side (and her head swam as she did so) to see if she had more mess to deal with.

Someone was leaning out of the window. Someone in a white cardigan and knee-length skirt. Someone who definitely shouldn’t have been there.

“The hell is this?” Said an unfamiliar male voice.

The hospital cavalry had arrived, Veronica assumed. She didn’t want to risk turning her head again and slipping back into unconsciousness. Her hypothesis was confirmed when a nurse appeared on one side of the bed and leaned over her. She completely ignored the girl staring out of the window.

Fair enough. She shouldn’t be there at all. She couldn’t be.

“Miss Sawyer. Veronica. Did you see what happened here?”

“No,” Veronica answered semi-truthfully, “I woke up when I heard the noise.”

The male voice groaned. “This is expensive equipment, goddammit! Who the hell broke this?!”

“I don’t _know_ , Jake!” the nurse hissed through gritted teeth, “Visiting hours are over, and this is the fourth floor! You go to Don for every other thing, why don’t you ask him?!” her attention returned to Veronica, and gave an attempt at a comforting smile. “You just sit tight. We’ll get this cleaned up in a jiffy. Just, uh, don’t fall asleep until we get another monitor hooked up, okay?”

The girl at the window turned around with a sigh, and froze when she saw Veronica’s gaze upon her.

Betty Finn. As Veronica remembered her, forever fourteen, untouched by the chaos. Green eyes with white pupils looked at Veronica in shock.  

 _Okay,_ she said, in that same tone that seemed to miss Veronica’s ears. _Okay. Um. If you can see me… well, I was hoping you’d do it anyway, can you… check your pulse?_

Shakily, Veronica put two fingers to her neck. It was faint, a little elevated with all the sudden activity, but still definitely there.

 _Still alive?_ Veronica nodded ever-so-slightly, as to not alert the cleanup crew. _Good. Your girlfriend has really strange ideas about how to save lives. Nice to see it didn’t end up killing you instead._

“…Good?” Veronica mouthed. A new piece of machinery was wheeled in, and ‘Jake’ (a male nurse, it seemed) set her up, still grumbling under his breath. Just like that, the gaggle of staff was gone.

Veronica’s attention returned to her dead friend. The mere sight of her brought tears to Veronica’s eyes. It had taken her so long to push down all the pain of Betty’s death, everything that could have been.

_ Please don’t cry. _

It was even softer than before. The sound of that lonely little voice wrenched at Veronica’s heart.

“Distract me, then,” Veronica croaked, “Tell me what happened. Why are you here?”

_ I wanted to keep an eye on you, and since visiting hours don’t apply to me... _

“No, I mean, why are you here and not in heaven?”

_ Because Martha was alone. _

Ah. If Veronica wasn’t choked up before, she sure was now. This was Betty. Sacrificing everything for her friends, even her chance at eternal bliss. All because Veronica messed up.

 _It’s not your fault,_ Betty reassured her, _you tried to do both. You really did._

“I shouldn’t have. I should have been there for Martha. It’s just… I wanted to be left out of the rat race. I saw my chance, and I took it.” Veronica mumbled.

_ And there’s nothing wrong with that. Learn from it. Maybe try and get it through Heather’s hard head, too. _

That muttered addition broke Veronica out of her one-woman pity party. A smirk crept onto her face.

“I take it you don’t approve.”

 _It’s not like that!_ Betty’s pupils left white trails, like shooting stars, as she averted her gaze. _I don’t get a say in your love life. I mean, she’s pretty and all, but… gah! So stubborn!_

Veronica couldn’t help but giggle. She made a ghost all flustered while stuck in a hospital bed. That was pretty impressive, even if she did say so herself. It was a happy thought, and maybe a happy thought would be the candle to keep away the darkness.

_ You really love her, don’t you? _

“I do.”

_ I’m glad. _

Betty was almost wistful. There was that sad little smile again, the one Veronica had seen all through middle school.

Wait. Did Betty…?

 _You should get some sleep,_ Betty murmured, her eyes soft. _I’m sure your friends will want to see you. I’ll tell Martha you’re okay._

“But-”

_ Sleep. _

Veronica was swallowed up by blackness again. The two pinpricks of light in Betty’s eyes were the last things to fade from view.

 

-

 

Morning arrived. Betty had been absolutely correct, to Veronica’s chagrin.

Her parents arrived first, their conversation with her straddling the thin line between ‘we are so proud of you’ and ‘you are grounded forever’. McNamara described in great detail the enormous bouquet she wasn’t allowed to bring into the ICU, promising to buy Veronica another one once she got out ( _Damn rich people_ , Veronica thought to herself), and Martha fussed over Veronica’s tangled hair while trying to give summary of the events after Veronica passed out.

Veronica let her talk. She didn’t have the heart to tell Martha that she already knew. Especially given who told her. 

 

After an almost overwhelming number of visitors, doctors, people from school, distant family members she hadn’t seen in years, _Courtney_ (pushing Veronica to sign a petition to rename the cafeteria in Chandler’s honor), the one person she actually wanted to see made an appearance.

She was impossibly gorgeous. She had always been stunning, of course, but there was something ethereal about it this time, something that set Veronica’s heart racing (as the EKG so helpfully informed her). Heather Chandler flopped down onto the plastic visitors’ chair, and regarded Veronica with careful eyes.

There was no coddling. No hollow compliments about how brave or selfless she was.

“Doesn’t look as much like a bird’s nest as I thought it would,” said Heather, gesturing to Veronica’s hair.

Veronica smirked. “Aren’t you the charmer? Martha helped fix it up for me.”

“Oh. That was… nice… of her.” It was amazing how Heather could make the word ‘nice’ sound almost foreign. It was a welcome change, though, to have someone who didn’t treat Veronica like she was made of glass. Like she was a celebrity, a hero, like she was someone other than herself.

Veronica held out her hand. Heather took it immediately. After a moment, she frowned.

“Do you still want this?”

“What do you mean?”

There was a pause.

There were many times that Heather hadn’t bothered to answer questions. Either she thought the person was too insignificant to be blessed with her reply, or just because she didn’t like what was being asked of her.

This time was different.

“I mean…” Heather huffed. “Me. Do you still want me?”

There was a brief silence as Veronica processed that, running her thumb across Heather’s knuckles.

“Why do you think I wouldn’t?” she asked gently. Heather made a face.

“Well, first off, I’m dead. I can’t protect you from everyone else at school now, and that’s why you wanted to be with me in the first place, right?” Heather was rambling now. “And I can’t take you to the movies unless we go somewhere a few towns over because someone might recognize me and we _can’t_ go anywhere because I don’t have a car anymore and I’ve always been a bad person and now I’m…” her eyes fell to her free hand, and Veronica saw a small scar on Heather’s wrist, “…worse.”

It was a good thing Veronica didn’t need to speak to give Heather an answer. She didn’t want to ruin the moment with an ill-timed joke or by tripping over her own words. Instead, she pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Heather’s hand.

Heather didn’t react, at first. Her gaze flickered between their clasped hands and Veronica’s eyes, her face blank. Veronica had an inkling on what that mask was hiding.

“I want you to stay with me. Can you do that?” Veronica asked quietly.

Implying Heather couldn’t do something was usually a sure-fire way to get her to do it, but there was still a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. It didn’t suit her.

“I can stay,” she replied, more to herself than Veronica, “I can do that. You want me to.”

“That’s right. And I don’t want you up and leaving me again, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

Veronica swallowed.

“I want to be with you. More than anything, I want to be with you, today and tomorrow and forever. Do you want to be with me?”

The mask shattered.

“Yes,” Heather whispered, grasping onto Veronica’s hand for dear life, “God, yes, don’t… yes. Of course. Yes.”

“Ow, yeah, okay. Please don’t break my hand. Don’t wanna be in here any longer than I have to be.” Ah, there it was. Veronica Sawyer – Moment Killer. Heather relaxed her grip, giving Veronica a watery smile. Veronica responded with a lopsided grin.

They were together. Heather was here, Heather was real, Heather wasn’t going to disappear again. It ached so sweetly to know those three truths. They could, they would, work it all out. There was still hope.

It wasn't perfect, but it was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further information on this chapter can be found at shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com.


	13. Radiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica has news.

It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. 

The social pyramid had been destroyed on the day after winter break had ended, when Veronica Sawyer had strolled into school with a red scrunchie on her wrist and steel in her eyes. That hairpiece was a crown, a sword stuck in stone – whoever wore it was in charge, lest the ghost of Heather Chandler return and wreak havoc on the student body for disrespecting what was ultimately _her_ authority. So, it was Sawyer who became wild Westerburg’s new sheriff, and with a new leader came a new doctrine: _Be nice to each other, or else_.

This worked for some. Martha Dunnstock, former verbal punching bag, sat with the remaining Heathers with minimal pearl-clutching from others. The Geek Squad was no longer ostracized for being nerdy, instead shunned for their concerning ideas about women. Those who used to be at the top had their tongue-lashing and taunts turned on them, and they either changed for the better or were left with nothing.

Of course, there were efforts to topple that new world order. None were successful. Mostly because there was something wrong with Veronica. Not wrong in an exploitable way, either.

Wrong as in unnatural.

A flash of piercing grey in normally brown eyes. A decidedly dangerous smirk that didn’t fit her face. An aura that was no longer entirely hers. Things that came and went in an instant, sending a jolt of familiar fear down people’s spines.

It wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t unrecognizable.

 

-

 

The end of the day was supposed to be quiet.

Maybe it was just something about spring, Veronica mused. The sun dipped low in the sky, at just the right angle to irritate her eyes. The birds took it as their cue to make as much noise as possible, and Sherwood’s legions of cows were warming up their vocal cords for a night of bellowing. The feeble cries of their respective offspring attempting to join the chorus might have been what made it unbearable.

No matter. Veronica had a purpose. The gentle breeze pushed her ever onward, towards the edge of town. She had news to share, and the letter was practically burning a hole in her pocket.

 

There had been rumors about this place, back in elementary school. It was abandoned long before any of Veronica’s classmates were born, so, naturally, the place _must_ have been haunted. The ghost in the stories fit every serial killer cliché in the book, wearing the skin of his victims as clothes, one hand replaced with a hook (though the storytellers were never consistent with which hand it was). They made Betty and Martha shiver, but Veronica had never really been convinced. The only things haunting this skeleton of a building were rodents and drug addicts.

They used to be, anyway. Not anymore. The current tenant was having none of it.

It was a balancing act – fixing up the place enough to make it livable, but not enough that it attracted any unwanted attention. There was a bit of leeway, given most of the windows had been boarded up long ago, but there was no fixing the holes in the roof or the stairs leading up to the porch. Veronica cursed the latter as she climbed over the rotted wood and opened the front door.

The floor creaked as she navigated the hallways. Of course it did. It was an annoyance and an alarm system all in one. After the detritus and dirty needles were cleared out, the house proved there was some beauty in ruin. The filthy old armchair covered by a bed sheet, the piano with the ivory stripped from the keys, the half-collapsed shelves once again decorated in library books and discarded knick-knacks. Everything clean, ordered, in a place of chaos and decay.

Veronica came to a halt at the foot of the staircase, which only fared slightly better than the one outside. Beams of fading light, glimmering gold, peeked through partly-covered windows, through cracks in the ceiling. Threads to the waking world.

“Hey,” Veronica called out, “just me. I got a surprise for you. Come on out.”

Silence, at first. Then, a whisper of cloth. A rush of moving air, and the faintest tap from behind her.

The floor never creaked for Heather.

 Lithe, pale arms wrapped themselves around Veronica’s waist, long fingers splayed over her abdomen. Over her scar, a wound healed by whatever aberrant force that kept Heather up and walking. By her blood.

“Hope it’s a good one.”

“I thought you’d be happy with _any_ surprise,” Veronica replied. Heather’s ‘afterlife’ was probably hell for someone so driven by adoration and materialism, with nothing to entertain herself except for what Veronica brought her. If it _was_ hell, though, Heather wasn’t complaining.

Well. She was. Just not as much as Veronica expected.

Heather grumbled. “Hardly. Last night, some crackhead who missed the memo this isn’t a drug den anymore tried to smoke in here.”

“Key word is tried, right?”

“Naturally.” Heather released Veronica, and sauntered off. “Dumped him near the bus stop. Left him with enough money for a ticket.”

Veronica trailed after her. 

Heather was on her way to the living room. It was definitely the… well, ‘nicest’ was still a stretch, but it was the most intact corner of the house. The portable radio Veronica had supplied was perched on a stool in the corner, next to a partially collapsed couch and an alarming amount of pillows. The fireplace was usually empty, but today there was a small pile of rags sitting inside.

“Wait, did you take _everything_? His clothes, as well?”

Heather half-turned, the shadow of a smirk on her face. “It humiliates him, and it sends a message. That message is ‘get the fuck out’.”

“Oh, speaking of getting the fuck out,” Veronica congratulated herself on the segue as reached into her blazer to pull out the letter. Intrigued, Heather circled Veronica before resting her head on the taller girl’s shoulder.

Veronica’s college acceptance letter. The unimpressed sun of Brown University gazed back at them.

“Hah. Nerd.” Old habits die hard, it seemed. “Ivy League, though. Not too shabby.”

“Damn straight. That’s not all. It’s in Rhode Island.”

“Ah, yes. The tiniest of states. So?”

“ _So_ , it’s hundreds of miles away from anyone who might know you got shot.” Veronica allowed herself a hopeful smile. “You could be somebody again.”

It was like a sunrise. The way the realization slowly dawned on Heather, the way her face lit up. Veronica basked in its glory for a moment, as Heather gave a breathless laugh.

“I forgot,” she marveled, running a hand through her hair, “God, how long has it been? Four, five months?” Her face went blank. “Shit. I gotta buy a whole new wardrobe.”

“Babe, chill. We’ve got time.”

“First impressions are important, Ronnie. I have to check if Dad cancelled that credit card. Does he even remember it exists?”

“You’ve got a few months to figure it out. Don’t get too excited.”

“I’ll need a fake ID, or maybe a whole new identity. I can’t use my real name, not when there’s a building named in my memory…”

“Peter’s dad works for the state, and he owes me. He can probably get a birth certificate, or something.”

It went unsaid that, despite Veronica convincing Heather to donate her lunch money to Peter’s Foodless Fund, Chandler either donated entirely in pennies or threw the money directly in Peter’s face.  A blank one was all Veronica could realistically hope for. At least she was used to forgery.

Veronica flopped down on the couch, patting a spot next to her.

Heather didn’t take it. Instead, she leaned over and cradled Veronica’s face in her hands, still silky-smooth, still perfect.

She would always be perfect, Veronica thought, as Heather blessed her with a smile.

“Has anyone told you that you’re beautiful?”

“Yes. You. All the time.”

“I think you need reminding,” her voice was like honey – smooth, soft, truly sweet, “you’re smart, and talented, and so very good to me. Now, I’m going to return the favor.”

Veronica leaned back as Heather crawled into her lap, soft lips and sharp teeth descending down her neck.

 

She woke up some time later, half-buried in Heather’s nest of cushions. Heather was right there with her. Veronica heard the rasping turn of a page and a few bars of _Material Girl_ hummed under Heather’s breath as she came to. Chandler must have noticed the change in her breathing, because there was now a hand combing through Veronica’s hair.

“How long was I out?” Veronica murmured, eyes still closed.

“An hour, tops,” was the whispered reply, “it’s before curfew. You could go home if you want.”

“Nah. Martha and McNamara are covering for me. I told my parents I’d sleep over at Heather’s place after movie night.”

The fingers gently massaging Veronica’s scalp slowed.

“I still owe you a movie, don’t I…?”

Veronica opened one eye to glance at her girlfriend. She saw little, the sun having set, gold replaced with silver, but the faraway look in Heather’s eyes was clear as day.

It looked wrong on her. Heather Chandler was never trapped in the throes of melancholy like Veronica. Although, it might have been possible. Chandler was a part of Veronica now. They were bound by blood. Why couldn’t Veronica be a part of Heather? 

Chandler set her jaw.

“Right. We’re going. Come on, Veronica.”

Veronica yelped as she was pulled to her feet.   

 

-

 

Once Heather McNamara realized who was knocking at her door, her face split into a grin.

“I thought we were just an excuse.”

 Veronica shrugged. “Heather wanted to see a movie, but she also didn’t want to go to the theater.”

“That kid from the school newspaper works there,” Heather protested, “if I’m gonna be exposed, it should be in USA Today, not _that_ rag.”

“You haven’t started yet, have you?”

McNamara shook her head. “We got distracted playing board games. Come in, we’ve just started another round.”

Chandler kept any scoffs or accusations of childish behavior to herself as she strode past her host. Good, Veronica thought as she followed the two down the hall, that meant progress.

 

One of the nice things about McNamara’s house (and there were many) was how warm it felt. Not necessarily temperature-wise, though Veronica had nothing to complain about there. Maybe it was something about the color of the walls, the plush carpets and hardwood floors, all autumnal tones, that made Veronica feel at home in someone else’s house.

That, and it wasn’t a labyrinth like the Chandler property. Up the stairs, halfway down the hall, and they were there.

McNamara opened the door.

Martha Dunnstock and Heather Duke stared back at them.

There was a long silence.

“Fuck off, Dracula!” Duke snapped, and Veronica had to stifle her laughter, “I have a crucifix in my bag. One more step, and I’ll shove it so far up your ass that Renfield here will have to pull it out of your mouth.”

Chandler didn’t miss a beat. “A crucifix? Congratulations. I’m sure your parents are very disappointed with your conversion. I'm not here for you, idiot.”

Veronica sat down next to Martha, and the two old friends shared a shy smile while Duke and Chandler bickered. Veronica was quietly proud of how far Martha had come – she stood up for herself more regularly, her friendship(?) with McNamara had taught her a few things about fashion.

She had learned to move on from the past. Stopped clinging to something grand, but long gone. Maybe that’s why Veronica had only seen Betty once. Her job was done.

“I’m glad you came. I know it’s been pretty busy for you lately.”

“Oh, no problem.” Veronica looked down at the board. “Clue, huh?”

“Mac rented the movie, so I thought it’d be fun to bring the game, too.”

“And she was right!” McNamara plopped down on the other side of Martha, “I’ve been a murderer twice, now, and I didn't even know it! Another one, before we put the movie in.”

Duke fidgeted with her hands a little as Martha picked out the white token. The maid, Veronica vaguely remembered. She gave Chandler a significant look.

 _Let them be kids,_ it said. _They only have one shot._

Heather rolled her eyes, sighing as she sat down to Veronica’s right. She plucked two pieces from the board – the red piece, and the purple piece.

She gave the red piece to Veronica.

“I was going to…” Duke began.

“I know you were,” Chandler cut her off, smirking, “put it this way. You don’t have to be green anymore, if you don’t want to be.”

Duke nodded slowly, picking up the blue pawn. McNamara took yellow, as usual, and the game began.

As it happened, Veronica was the murderer. In the billiard room. With the revolver.

 

The snowy static of the television was the only light left to them. Its owner, Martha and Duke were all snuggled together under a fuzzy orange blanket, off in dreamland. Thankfully for her friends, McNamara was sleeping soundly tonight.

Veronica wasn’t.

Chandler was whispering in her ear. Telling Veronica about everything she was going to do, _they_ were going to do once they were free. Veronica wanted to remind her there were still six long months before that day, but it was a rare treat to hear unguarded excitement in her voice. Those words were only ever heard by Veronica, and it made her feel like a prophet – privy to the secrets of a goddess.

That’s what Heather Chandler was. A goddess, or perhaps a fallen angel. Peerless, deathless, impossibly beautiful. Veronica was her herald, her adviser, her protector.

That’s how it always would be, Veronica hoped, as she pulled Heather into a tight embrace. The stream of sound from Chandler's lips ended with a contented sigh. It would be like this through what was left of their time in Sherwood, with the people who shaped them. Through college, into the ever-changing future, the centuries to come. 

The world wouldn’t be the same, but they could be eternal.

Veronica and Heather.

Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, kin of my kin, my bountiful wine-press for a while, and shall be later on my companion and my helper... Now you shall come to my call. When my brain says ‘Come!’ to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding."


End file.
